Oreo
by kamelion
Summary: Complete. Mark, Roger, Benny and Collins discover they are meant to be more. AU based vaguely on Hereos. First chapter won 1st place at Speedrent. Thanks to Greens for idea! T for language.
1. Chapter 1

Authors Notes: Blame this fic on Greens at Speedrent, who gave us the challenge of taking the show "Heroes" and using it as a baseline for an AU fic. Seeing as how this is my thing, I jumped on it and it ran away with me clinging on for dear life! So Greens, this fic is for you. This fic is also unbeta'd, so blame mistakes on me, I'm trying to catch them. It is complete, but as I'm doing a beta and have RL going on growls, I'll be posting daily rather than in one lump, so please feel free to put this story on your alert list. And while I've got you here, I started a yahoogroup for sharing Rent wips called "Fic4Rent". Members are encouraged to bat around ideas, post fics, discuss, and whatnot. This is a new group that needs members, so if you are interested in joining, please email me or leave a note in your review.

R/R are greatly appreciated, I like knowing what works and what doesn't in the stories I write. For those that are following "Scream", I'm still working on that as well. Thank you all very much!! -Kam :)

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First chapter won 1st place at Speedrent.

Warnings: Language

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There was no lightning, no crash of thunder, no evil, demonic voice that demanded his attention, no teleport into another world, no supernatural being that forced a last breath into his mouth before dying. But still, Mark knew it. He _knew_ it, deep in his bones, like someone lit a neon sign and bashed him head first into it.

Something was different.

Something wasn't right, something had changed, and it made him scurry off his floppy, floor-bound mattress and quickly retie the drawstring to the navy sweat pants he slept in as he surveyed his room, blurry-eyed. He fumbled for his glasses. Where was his camera? There, in the chair. He snatched it up and checked the film, not paying attention to where he was stepping, instinctively knowing the path around his clothes to the door. His arms instantly held goosebumps, the wooden floor was cold to his bare feet, and he took to stepping on his clothes rather than around them. He wasn't usually this messy, but then he wasn't usually this busy.

He quickly walked out of his room, his camera to his eye, poised for a revelation. The humming that echoed through the loft sounded harsh, not happy, but the mouth that closed around the hum was upturned in a smile. Roger Davis was composing. Shit. Roger was _cleaning_.

Mark slowly lowered the camera. This wasn't a standard spring clean. Those Roger would work on with half-hearted abandon, then give up and go outside to enjoy the warmer air, or head up to the roof with his guitar in hand. Well, granted it had been a long time since he went anywhere with his guitar in hand, which was what made the incessant humming all the more distracting. And it definitely wasn't spring.

Mark leaned back against the wall, the sight becoming too much for his curiosity to handle. The hand holding the camera dropped to his side, still filming. "Roger?" His voice betrayed concern.

"Hmm? Oh, hi. You're up." Roger casually smacked a dishcloth against his denim-clad leg after wiping off a table.

"Hi," Mark said faintly, watching him in uncertainty. He found the strength to shoulder away from the wall and walked toward the kitchen. But he still didn't know what to say.

"You're still filming." Roger gestured toward the camera.

"What? Oh." Mark looked down, then raised the camera to his eye. He winced and lowered it, turning it off.

Roger raised his brow and walked to the sink. "Uh-oh. That's not a good sign. You feeling okay?"

"I-I was going to ask that about you, actually." Mark sat down at the large crumb-free, mug free, dust and grime free table that doubled and tripled as an eating area, work area, and clutter-catcher. "You're _cleaning_."

"Place is a wreck."

"Like you care! You're wiping things down, stop, look, give me that!" He snatched the cloth away. "What's going on?"

Roger popped a kernel of dry cereal into his mouth. Mark noticed two bowls on the counter, and eyed them as Roger said, "You should do your laundry. It'll be crawling in here before you know it."

"It's not that bad, look, what's going on?" Mark then found himself eyeing Roger's arm. He knew all about the physical high his friend would thrive on after shooting up (come to think of it that was one thing that prompted spring cleanings) and he couldn't forget the restlessness that caused him to wander aimlessly around the loft in the middle of the night. On worse occasions, well. . .he didn't want to think about that. Besides, he didn't look bad. At all.

"Nothing's going on! I just feel good." Roger's expression fell slightly. "That bother you?"

"NO! Are you kidding, no!" Mark allowed himself to laugh around the sentence. "It doesn't! It's just, it's been a while, you know?"

"Yeah. So don't ruin it, okay?" Green eyes sent a clear message to Mark.

He stood and backed away, hands held in the air, message received as clearly as it was given. "I won't touch it." He continued to stare dubiously as he reversed direction. "I'm going to take a shower." Once he was certain Roger wasn't going to morph into some creature that would rip his throat out before waking from a nightmare, he turned.

"Hot water's out."

"So what's new?" Mark asked over his shoulder as he returned his camera to the bag in his room and grabbed a pair of tan pants, clean boxers, and a sweater. "We got clean towels?" he yelled out as he searched for socks. Roger answered by suddenly appearing and playfully throwing one in his face, and didn't budge. Mark realized he was being scrutinized, and tugged self-consciously at his thin t-shirt. His bare foot scraped against the floor.

"You're eating two bowls of cereal this morning, scarecrow," Roger merely said, and left Mark to his duties.

The shower was cold, damn cold, but it made him feel better. Well, it woke him up. He soaped up his face, rinsed, then worked his way down, careful not to slip in the sudsy water that pooled at his feet. Damn drain. Washing his hair was quick, quicker than Roger handling that mane of his, a result of intense depression when he didn't give a crap about his looks, and had to be forced to shower. He had yet to cut it, but at least it stayed clean now. Maureen was a threat to put the wavy locks up into girly pigtails, and Mark was about ready to let her do it. He rinsed throughly, gargled a mouth full of water and spat it out, then shut the shower off. He toweled quickly, trying not to shiver.

He realized once he left the shower that he felt pretty damn good himself, except for a slightly nagging headache, more than likely due to staying up the previous night to edit his film. He vaguely remembered Roger walking up to him at "ten past too fucking late," as he put it, and dragging him away from the projector, steering him to bed. He hesitated in his toweling as he remembered thinking how much stronger than usual Roger's grip felt. Not lethargic, not weak. Firm. Commanding. Just plain strong. But he didn't think anything else of it. He had felt tired, stressed, and was glad to crash. He finished drying and clothed himself, his thoughts circling.

Now he found himself watching Roger as he prepared for his day. The man was still a little pale, but his movements seemed . . .more fluid. Different. Mark's brows knitted over puzzled eyes. He had never seen the musician move like this, not even when engaged in a song. Not with this much confidence. Ever. And the fact that his friend ushered him out of the loft to get some fresh, cold air after their breakfast was enough to make Mark want to run to Collins and ask for help. In fact he suggested heading that way, just to be sure.

Roger was all to glad to visit their friend, and agreed quickly. It had been nearly a week since Collins was at their place, and both were missing his steady presence. Roger chatted lightly, and Mark suddenly realized he was having the best time he'd had in ages.

Roger was actually being funny, actually being more like the Roger he had first moved in with, the life-long friend and brother that a lover's death and terminal illness tried so hard to steal from him. He walked with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his head down, but he joked and smiled and dammit, looked like he felt great. Mark was delighted and confused, and decided to just enjoy the ride. Hell, his friend deserved a break. Of course it wasn't destined to last as they turned down an alley that was meant to be a shortcut.

It was daylight, for God's sake.

Mark knew instantly that something wasn't right. A cold chill ran down his arms, making the cold shower he'd taken earlier feel like a heat wave and making the fine, light hairs stand on end. He felt a sudden pain in his head, bad enough to make him wince. The realization caught him by surprise, and he checked up for a moment, one hand poised to grab his head, but there was no time. Roger walked on, involved in a story that he himself found hilarious, but that Mark had lost track of.

He didn't know how, but red warning lights flashing before his eyes, only he felt the sensation rather than saw it. It was like waking up in the loft that morning and knowing something was different, but this was a bad something, not a good something. Without thinking he raced forward and clutched Roger's arm, pulling him to a sudden stop as he assessed his feelings. "Wait, Roger, wait."

"What's up?" Roger turned to him, and his levity faded. "Mark?"

"Shh."

"You look . . ."

"Go. Go now." Mark urged him forward quickly. What he should have done, was turn around.

The attack not only took them both by surprise, but was relentless. He heard Roger yell his name as he was snatched away and slammed into the brick wall. His head connected, and he slumped to the alley floor heavily, the area around him spinning, his camera bag slipping from his shoulder. He had the presence of mind to shove it to safety as a boot sailed into his stomach. He cried out and doubled over on his side. Again he was kicked, this time in the head, and he rolled onto his back, dazed. He heard yelling and managed to catch a glimpse of Roger on the ground, two men standing over him, and all he could think was, _he's bleeding. Good. They deserve it. _It was a callous thought, fed on by fear.

He felt himself being hoisted up, his shirt and jacket gathered around his chin in a fist, and he gasped as he slammed back against the wall. The person holding him laughed, then dropped him. Mark landed like a lead weight, spied his bag, and oddly enough was more worried about it than about the knee pinning him to the ground, crushing his chest, and the fist raised over his face. He squirmed, trying to get to the bag, and felt the blow which snapped his head to the side. The pressure on his chest increased. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and he felt a hand around his throat as the man leaned into his face, his stale breath clouding him. He clawed desperately at the fingers that suddenly cut off his air flow. There was an outraged yell, Roger's apparently, and the man that held him suddenly jerked his head to the side. Mark managed to follow his glance.

He saw Roger at about the time his friend flung off an attacker and threw him bodily against the bricks. Two other men were on the ground, one rolling in pain, the other still.

The man pinning Mark down noticed it too, right as Roger's boot raced up and met with his nose, breaking it. The weight shifted as the man fell over, and Mark felt himself being pulled up and tossed to the side gently, yet effortlessly, like a rag doll. He stumbled backwards and landed on his ass, his glasses askew on his bloodied face. Roger picked up his attacker by the collar, looked at him, and released him in disgust. He surveyed the damaged, then quickly grabbed Mark's arm. "Mark! You okay? Huh? Come on. Wait, careful, we're both bleeding."

Mark was watching the thug wide-eyed as he was pulled to his feet. His attention suddenly snapped to the man that held him. "Roger? What the hell . . ."

"Let's go, come on!"

"Wait, wait, I gotta. . ." Mark pointed to his bag as he was pulled to his feet, and shakily picked it up, pausing in confusion to look at the groaning men. "Wh – how the hell . . ."

"Same way you knew they were there, I guess," Roger said hurriedly, "let's go." He ushered Mark out of the alley, and the two of them hastened as best they could to Collins' flat. No more words were spoken.

Neither knew what to say.

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Tom Collins had his head buried in a book, almost literally. The subject was fascinating, and for once he was able to read through it and absorb the notations and facts and dates and theories like a sponge soaking up water. Days like these were rare, when he could just concentrate with no distractions, and this one was more rare than most. He was happy to take full advantage of it. The light filtered in through half-drawn windows. Unread volumes were stacked to his right. The knock on his door pissed him off.

He tried to ignore it. It was probably Mrs. What's-her-burger, uh, Watsonfurber, and he had no intention of breaking away from his studying to unclog her sink, or get her cat off the roof, or whatever else she . . .the pounding increased, and Collins growled deep in irritation as he scraped his chair back from his small dining table and stormed to the door, flinging it open. "_What?_" He quickly stepped back, seeing his two friends and former roommates looking like they had come out of the raw end of a meat grinder. "Holy shit. Get in here." He grabbed Mark by the shoulder of his jacket and pulled him in, giving Roger a once over at the same time. "Guess you guys took the alley to get here, huh?"

"It's daylight," Mark muttered as he stumbled in and collapsed painfully onto Collins' sofa. His breathing was light, like he was afraid to pull in a complete breath. He looked like he wanted to vomit.

Roger collapsed onto the cushion beside him. His lip was bleeding, swollen, but other than that he didn't look the worse for wear. Mark had a bruise forming around a cut on his head, and a long scrape on his cheek. His hands were skinned. Collins watched as Roger looked over Mark once, registered the pained breathing, and pulled up his sweater, jerking back as Mark batted his hands away. "And what the hell was that out there?" Mark demanded of his friend, obviously continuing a previous conversation. Collins listened intently as he headed for the small kitchen.

"Oh, I don't know, a mugging, maybe? You've lived here how long?" Roger asked, reaching for the sweater again. "Look, take that jacket off so I can get to you."

Again Mark pushed him away. "Hey! I'm fine! Since when do you fight like that?"

"Fight like what?" Collins returned with several cold cloths. He pressed one to Roger's lip, who instantly jerked it away, and pressed the other to Mark's head. Figured that these two would find a way to get beat up in broad daylight.

"Like a damn kung-fu movie. All high kicks and punches. He threw a guy against a wall!" Mark's eyes widened, and he sat up. "Roger, you took down three guys!"

Roger glared at him. "What, you think I can't defend myself?" He replaced the cloth that had slid from Mark's head, and Collins smiled. One thing he enjoyed about their friendship, was just watching it.

"No!" Mark exclaimed, taking the cloth. "Not like that! You got that guy off me then threw me out of his way like I weighed nothing!"

"You do weigh nothing!"

"I . . ." Mark huffed and turned to Collins. "I'm telling you, he's taking classes or something. And right when I couldn't get to my camera."

"Are you serious?" Roger asked him, incredulous.

The image of Roger performing some sort of kung-fu nearly sent Collins into an unseemly fit of laughter. "And when the hell is he taking classes?" he asked, not bother to hide the humor in his voice.

"I don't know! I . . ." Mark looked at Roger and gave up, grunted, and let his head fall back against the sofa in defeat. "God, I hurt." This time Roger lifted his sweater with no resulting argument and check out the bruising that was forming over Mark's ribs. Gentle pressing showed nothing more serious.

Collins watched them, and shook his head. Right when he thought he was going to have a good day. . ."I got this new herbal tea," he said, "I'll brew some up." He jerked his chin at Roger. Watching the two of them banter about events was entertaining and all, but he wanted some real facts. He wasn't totally convinced that Mark didn't need to see a doctor.

"Uh, yeah, I'll help." Roger caught the hint. He took his own cloth, examined it, and draped it over Mark's bruising torso, then followed Collins into the tiny kitchen. "What's up?"

"You tell me," Collins replied in a low voice as he pulled out a box of tea bags. He nodded toward the kettle, and Roger handed it to him.

"I don't know. I can't tell you anything. I just reacted."

"I meant for you to put water in it, not hand it to me. Taking down three guys . . ."

"You know I can fight." Roger filled the kettle and put it on the heat.

"Three guys," Collins reiterated.

Roger just shrugged and grabbed some mugs. "Oh, but hey, you want to know something?" He leaned his elbow on the counter. "Mark knew they were coming. He got this funny look and said, 'let's go' and started shoving me down the alley. So maybe you should ask _him_ what's going on."

"Sounds to me like he finally developed some street instinct."

"Uh-uh." Roger shook his head. "This was more than that."

"Nah. You just want it to be more, so the heat's off you for being stupid."

Roger stared. "How the hell is fighting off these guys stupid?"

"It was stupid to go down the alley." There was no more talk as the water heated, and the kettle whistled. Collins poured the water over the tea bags and handed Roger a mug. He held his grip on it until Roger met his eyes, making his point known, then picked up the other two. Damn kids. They weren't that much younger than him, only a few years, but sometimes it seemed more like twenty. "Now if you two want to sit here and rest, fine. I've been doing some good research, and I'd like to get back to it."

"Yeah, sure." Roger followed Collins. He felt Roger's eyes on him as he handed Mark his tea, the gaze following him as he sat down at his book-laden desk. "This what you've been doing all week?" He angled his head over the book. "What'cha reading?"

Collins opened his mouth. And what followed was a surprisingly spell-binding dissertation on the three books he had read that morning.

Okay, that was new.

Collins just grinned when questioned, more than happy to explain his new found skill. "Yeah. I can feel this information sinking into my pores, man. It's incredible, it feels like I've learned a new way to study. Never felt anything like it. I sure as hell don't plan on wasting a day like this." If only there was a way to teach the technique, it would make putting up with his students a hell of a lot easier. He grinned again, right as Mark caught his attention. The boy, he would always think of him as a boy, he'd be old and grey and still look fifteen, was staring at his mug. "You okay? The tea not good?"

Mark was sitting up. "We need a fourth," he muttered.

Collins felt his gut go cold. He looked at Roger, both stunned at what he said, and even more stunned that they almost knew what he was talking about. Almost. "What do you mean, a fourth?" Roger asked quietly, sitting beside Mark. Collins was quite sure he wasn't ready for an answer to that.

"We need a fourth." Mark simply repeated, like it made all the sense in the world, and looked up. "I think he's here." There was a knock on the door.

Collins looked at Mark for a long minute. There was no way, no way . . .he must've heard the person come up the stairs, except this wasn't the loft, there was no announcement of an arrival though vibrations in the floor, or sounds of doors sliding open then shut. This was a proper apartment. The occasional door slam, voices in the hall, but Collins had heard none of that. Mark's expression was more curious than anything, as though he hadn't said something unusual. It was more like he was waiting to see how the scene played out. Okay then, if that was how he wanted it.

Collins cast another glance over his shoulder at the men on the sofa as he let his guest in. He recognized the light cologne, and groaned inwardly. This was the last person they needed to see right now. Mark and Roger both looked up in surprise as Collins took a deliberate step back. "Benny. What the hell are you doing here? You look . . .crumpled." It was the only was to describe the sudden lack of flair in an otherwise secure man, and it temporarily threw Collins off-guard.

Benjamin Coffin the Third had a look about him that benefitted the grandeur of the name. Usually. Today the crisp lines of his suit were marred with overuse, and his uncertain expression looked just as tousled. "Look, I know, I'm sorry to drop in like this. I just came by to . . ." his gaze fell to the men seated on the sofa, "Jesus, what the hell happened to you two?"

"New York," Mark groused, and Roger merely leaned his head back.

Collins watched Benny. He looked uncomfortable, and it made Collins even more uneasy than his normal arrogance did. He gestured for Benny to come in, his eyes never leaving the disturbed face. Benny nodded and seemed uncertain how to go about the business that had brought him to the door. "Well, I figured you'd all be here." He held out a hand, and Collins stared, and saw Mark straighten. He just knew, _he knew_.

There was an aura around it. His head pounded. He felt frightened. His fear was reflected on the faces of those around him, his eyes meeting those of Mark's.

"Guys," Benny said calmly, "I think I need to talk."

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They sat around the room, motionless, each staring at a spot on the wall. The conversation had taken several turns, and all led to one conclusion. They had changed. They were . . .yeah. That.

"So, you're saying you can influence people," Roger said to Benny without looking at him. "Inspire them. Con them. And it literally seals with a handshake."

"Yep. Been happening for two days now. Didn't occur to me that something was going on until I started testing it today. I've closed deals that have been fought over for months." Benny raised his hand, and again the aura glowed.

Roger quirked his eyebrows and shrugged, leaning back. "Yeah, okay. You got that, Mark senses shit now, and Collins is sucking up knowledge like vacuum."

"And you're a fucking Bruce Lee incarnation," Mark muttered.

"Hm. Don't suppose there's any radioactive spiders in New York," Collins said. Mark managed a small smile.

Benny sighed and pushed back against his chair, his arms braced on his legs. "Guess we do need a name," he said casually.

"What," Mark scoffed, "insane?"

"Besides," Roger leaned forward, "you're now implying that the same thing is happening to all of us, and we don't even know that something is happening in the first place. We could just be having a really good day."

"Week."

"Whatever."

"Collins said you took down three guys," Benny pressed.

"Collins wasn't there."

"He did," Mark cut in.

Roger threw up his arms in annoyance. "Why is everyone so amazed by that? I played in bars, for Christ sake! You think I never got into barroom brawls? Pitched drunk people over pool tables?"

"Not lately," Collins muttered.

"I think you aren't accepting what's going on," Benny added.

"Oh, and the voice of reason speaks." Roger threw up his hands.

"What do you think is going on?" Mark asked cautiously.

"I think this is happening for a reason. We're all here, together. We don't have to understand it." Benny rose from his chair and sat on the arm of the couch, mirroring Collins' position. Mark and Roger were seated between them, all but glaring. "I mean, they all have names."

"Who's _they_?" Mark asked.

"You know." He seemed reluctant to say it.

Mark was even more reluctant to hear it. He grimace and shook his head.

Benny sighed. "Hell Mark, you want a community? Looks like you got one."

Mark just shook his head in disbelief, still staring at the wall. "This isn't happening. Just. . .tell me this isn't happening."

"It'd make a hell of a documentary," Collins said calmly.

"Dammit, be serious!" Mark rubbed at his head, careful of the injury. "How did this happen?"

"Guess we'll find out," Benny replied.

"And why?"

"That too."

"Are you serious about a name?"

"I don't know." Benny shrugged.

Collins allowed a devilish smile to cross his lips, and passed a pointed look over his companions. "So it seems that, what we have here, essentially, is someone who is omnipotent, we have a rouge . . ."

"I am NOT a rogue!" Roger barked.

"Someone with extrasensory perception," Mark started to say something but snapped his mouth shut, "and myself, who seems is becoming something along the lines of . . . omniscient. Now. Put that together and what does it spell?"

"You sound like a fucking cheerleader," Roger muttered.

"Onmipotenttrougeextrasensoryperceptiononmniscient. Can I have my spoonful of sugar, now?"

Collins just grinned. "OREO."

"What the hell?" Benny leaned forward to flash him an incredulous look. He then noticed how they had arranged themselves on the sofa, and burst into the best laughter he'd had all year.

"Be serious," Mark snapped again. His head was pounding, the laughter wasn't helping, he was feeling dizzy, and no one seemed to give a shit. And that was when he experienced his first very real, agonizing, potentially deadly psychic attack.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Guess I should have said earlier that the RENT characters aren't mine, but people know that. Had a few questions, yes, this story goes way beyond what I posted at Speedrent, it currently sits at 65 pages without the few add-ins. So we're looking at about 6-7 chapters. Sending thanks to Abby; the reason I didn't update at SR was because I wanted the story to do it's own thing. And again thanking Greens for starting all this!

Fic4rent at yahoo group. Email for info.

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He stood with his back turned. His hands were deep in his pockets, his brow was furrowed. The large window before him looked out over the city, a city not unlike New York, only much larger, much taller, much cleaner. Far below, the lights twinkled and winked up at him. He knew they were running out of time.

Another man entered the room, a smaller, wispier man, but then most seemed small and wispy as compared to the person looking down onto the streets. "I think I know who has been tapped," he said slowly. "But they're going to need help. It's already begun, they aren't ready for this."

"I know," said the man at the window with a heavy sigh. "I suppose you should go to them."

"We can't let them handle this on their own."

"And you can't tell them anything. They have to figure it out." The larger figure glanced over his shoulder. "You know that. Otherwise they will be of no use to us."

"But I can guide them. One of them has already experienced an attack."

The man turned. "Already?" His voice held a measure of concern. "This isn't possible."

"The situation is dire. At this point, I would almost venture to say there are no rules."

Large shoulders squared back toward the window. "No. We must try to retain some sort of order. But if you feel you must go, then do so."

"I do."

"Just watch yourself." A look of affection was tossed toward the smaller man.

"I always do." He walked over and stood behind his friend. "Try to get some rest."

"Not tonight."

"But . . ."

"Go, if you're going to." The man had frozen, every sentence of his body language suddenly blocking off any further show of concern.

"Going." The smaller man nodded, and exited the room quickly.

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"Mark?" Roger's brow furrowed as he watch his friend suddenly clutch at his head. "You okay?" Mark nodded, then cried out, causing Roger to twist around in his panic. "Mark! What's . . .shit!" The agonizing scream that followed had each one holding the tormented man, trying to still him. He dove off the sofa and would have landed hard on the floor if not for the hands holding him steady.

Roger wasn't ready for this. No one could possibly be ready for this. "Mark, what is it? What's happening?" With all the discussion going on he half expected his friend to either turn into a giant green creature with bulging muscles or start throwing lightning bolts across the room. The more practical side of him said he was having an epileptic fit, though he never suffered from those, or he had an aneurysm that was about to burst. "What the hell is this?" he demanded of Collins, who just shook his head, fear evident in a normally calm face. "Well, come on! Don't you have all the fucking answers now?" Collins just met his glare with a pained expression.

Roger watched as Benny grabbed Mark's hands and forced them down by his side, then was pushed away with a force he didn't think Mark had in him. He landed on his ass as the poor man tore himself away from the others and launched himself toward the door, just in time for it to swing open and let a stranger in.

This man caught Mark by the arms and forced him harshly to his knees, cupping his hands over Mark's ears. Mark's own hands covered his as he tried to get away, then visibly calmed, though he still trembled. "What do you see?" the man asked him urgently.

Roger was on him. "What the – let him go! Who the hell are you?" he demanded, bent over them, his hands firm on Mark's arms ready to jerk him away, but a shake of the man's head silenced him.

"Not now." He nodded toward the man he held. "What's his name?"

"What?"

"What is his name?"

Roger stood still for a moment, then squatted down beside him. "Mark," he replied. He decided that, for the moment, he didn't care who this strange guy was because whatever he was doing to ease Mark's pain, it was working. He looked more calm, though obviously still hurting.

"Mark. Listen to me." The man's voice was smooth, gentle. There was a hint of an accent. "My name is Nathaniel Greer, and I'm here to help you. Now tell me, what do you see?"

Mark's hands tightened over those holding him. He shook his head rapidly. Tears squeezed out of his eyes.

"What's happening to him?" Roger asked sharply, his hands now on his friend's shoulders, gently massaging, gently comforting. What he really wanted to do was wring the information from this man's neck. He didn't like to be put off.

"I said, not now," the man insisted, and he gently removed Mark's glasses. "Mark, I must know, now please tell me. What do you see?"

"Nothing," Mark managed to whisper, squinting his eyes. "There's – noise." He winced again and ducked his head down away from the grip, but the man caught him. "Stop!" Mark whispered frantically.

"It will pass." Nathaniel smiled. "Trust me, I used to have these too. Feels like you're a tiny atom about to be split open and distributed all over the universe. Shredded. Pain like a mother, isn't it?" Mark's vivid blue eyes finally rose to meet his, and he nodded. "You'll learn how to mange the pain and get past it. You'll have to."

"Or?" Collins asked, now bending down beside Roger.

"You've heard the expression, 'brain turning into jelly'?"

Oh, hell no. This was too much. "Make it stop!" Roger ordered. "You know so much about it, stop this!"

"I can't." The man shook his head sadly, still holding on to Mark. "No more so than you could stop yourself in that alley when you and your friend were threatened."

Roger's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about that? How did you know that? Who the hell are you?"

"I'll tell you, but let's get your friend settled first. See, it's better, isn't it?" His voice was trusting. He relaxed his grip on the sides of Mark's head, his thumb gently rubbing the young film maker's forehead. Mark visibly slumped into the caress, exhausted. "Help me get him back to the sofa. He must lay down."

"I have a bed," Collins offered.

"Even better. The quiet will still the confusion in his mind."

"Should he be alone?" Benny asked. He had been standing back the whole time, observing anxiously.

"We'll keep the door open." He wrapped his arms around Mark's thin torso and nodded to Roger. "Get his feet."

Roger did so, only then realizing that the tormented man had passed out. They carried him to Collins' bed, which was a real bed, not a mattress on the floor, and gently laid him on it. Roger took the glasses that was handed to him and set them on the bedside table, then covered Mark with a blanket that lay over a nearby chair. Without his glasses, with his features relaxed and his thin body tucked underneath the blanket, he looked like a young boy.

Nathaniel looked surprised. "What age is this man?"

"'Bout the same as me," Roger offered. "A year younger." He looked offended when the new arrival merely snorted and walked into the living room.

Collins was clearing away books from another chair. "Guess I ain't reading after all," he muttered as they walked in. He picked up a pile and let it thump heavily onto a table. "Now, who the hell are you, what the hell did you just do, and would you like some tea?" Collins stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer. Any answer.

"Tea, yes, thank you." Nathaniel made himself comfortable, and waited expectantly.

Collins just shook his head and walked to the kitchen. This time Roger didn't follow. Instead he watched this new man with every ounce of his being.

Benny leaned forward after taking a seat across from the stranger. "While he's getting your tea," he said slowly, "would you care to explain what the hell is going on?" His eyes were pointed, his gaze almost metallic. Roger had never seen anything like it.

But the man smiled and shook his head. "Ah, it won't work, mate. I know the trick." He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back, then jumped forward as Collins handed him a mug. "Thank you."

"Look," Roger cut in, "is he going to be okay? What the hell happened to him?" He had taken a seat next to Benny, and leaned forward anxiously. There were two things he didn't like. One was uncertainty. The other was continued uncertainty.

Nathaniel sipped at his tea, considered it for a moment, then gave an approving nod. "Not too bad." He sat back once more, crossing his right leg over his left. "My name is Nathaniel Greer, as I have started before, and I have come here to help."

"Help with what?" Roger demanded.

"Oh, come now," Nathaniel said in irritation. "We don't have time for these games. It is obvious that something is happening to all of you, and it is obvious that this something is happening very, very quickly. Too quickly. Now if you prefer, I can leave, and let the lot of you handle this growing situation for yourselves. I can guarantee you it won't work. Or, you can sit quietly and let me tell my story, and why you four have been chosen."

"Chosen for what?" Collins asked, melting into a chair in disbelief.

But Roger held up an impatient hand. "Is. My friend. Going. To be. Okay?" He annunciated each word carefully.

Nathaniel raised his chin. "Yes. What your Mark has experienced is generally referred to as a psychic attack." His voice lowered. "Someone was trying to get to him. Assessing his skills, I bet."

Roger wanted to throw Nathaniel's words back at him in a question, but his mouth just worked around them. "What?" he finally managed to ask.

Nathaniel gave an impatient sigh. "Look, if I may start at the beginning . . ."

"Just don't leave out anything important," Collins said, leaning back and mirroring Nathaniel's position.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Nathaniel replied lightly, giving Collins a stern look. "Are you ready to listen?" Collins waved his hand at him, signaling for Nathaniel to continue.

The older man shrugged out of his long, black coat and draped it over the side of his chair. "I can't tell you absolutely everything, but I can give you enough information to ease this transition."

"Why can't you tell us everything?" Roger cut in.

"Let the man speak!" Collins reprimanded, and nodded to Nathaniel.

"What you are experiencing, is a sort of . . . evolution."

Collins looked like he just tasted something unpleasant. "You mean like X-Men?" Nathaniel looked puzzled, and Roger waved it away.

"We assist those that are chosen to go through this phase," Nathaniel continued. "The how's and why's are not important at this stage, though I can guarantee that all of your questions will be answered. For now, it simply will be too much information on top of a transition that will be difficult enough. Trust me when I say that this is for the good of humankind."

Collins leaned over to Benny. "Did he just say 'humankind'?"

"Uh-huh."

Roger bounced his leg as he closely regarded Nathaniel. His hair was greying. His face was youthful in that he looked healthy rather than younger than his years. His frame was slender, long, and Roger had an idea that he was fast and spry. Long fingers curled and flexed around the arms of the chair as he talked, not out of nerves, but more an inability to keep perfectly still. His grey eyes were keen, and kind. There was a definite ease about the man, yet Roger wasn't certain he trusted him. "This transition. How long does it take?"

"That's up to you. What I need right now, is to talk to each of you individually, to see exactly what is happening to you. Would that be permissible?"

"Sure." Collins shrugged and looked at Benny. "This is so fucked up anyway, don't see how it could hurt."

Nathaniel grinned. "I'm going to like you. What is your name again?"

"Call me Collins."

"Collins. My friends generally call me Nate."

"Generally?"

He shrugged. "It depends on the mood I'm in. I've heard worse. Who would like to start?" Collins pointed to Benny, and leaned back.

Nate smiled and pulled out a small notebook. "My mind isn't what it used to be," he said apologetically, and flipped open the cover. "First subject . . .your full name?"

Benny shot Collins a glare. Collins merely smirked. "Benjamin Coffin the third. Benny."

"Right. And what is your gift?"

Benny laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and the questioning that seemed so mundane for such a situation. "I have no idea."

"I dubbed it 'omnipotent'." Collins said.

"Omnipotent. And in what way?"

Benny laced his fingers together. "I guess, I can manipulate. Been happening consistently for two days now. If I want something from someone, I – I know what to say or do to get it."

"Jedi mind trick," Roger muttered.

"And this started two days ago?"

"Yes."

"Headaches?"

Benny frowned. "No."

"Describe your first realization."

No way in hell was he going to be able to sit through all of this. "I'm going to go check on Mark," Roger said, realizing that he was in for a Benny lecture, which weren't nearly as interesting as Collins'. That, and he suddenly felt sick, tense, and needed to just get away from things for a moment. Nate nodded at him and returned his attention to Benny.

Roger walked into the room and carefully closed the door behind him. The heavy curtains made the room darker than one would expect. Collins liked as little light as possible when turning in, Roger could remember trying to pile blankets over the large windows in the loft while Collins tried to decide who to room with, sleeping on the couch in the meantime. At that time Maureen was shacking up with Mark, and Benny shared his room. Of course this left the sofa, until Collins decided the small pantry was large enough to cram in a worn twin sized mattress, and had no windows to boot. So he slept for a year in a pantry.

Roger waited for his eyes to adjust. The bed was calling to him, to his aching body and distorted sense of reality. Maybe his dreams would make more sense. He removed his shoes and padded his way to the side of the bed. Mark looked to be sleeping peacefully. He had turned on his side, the blankets pulled around him, his body curled. Roger put his hand on the narrow shoulder, checking for movement. There was nothing but gentle breathing, a relaxing rhythm that made Roger realize just how tired he was himself. "Push over," he muttered, nudging at Mark's back until the other man grunted and complied. Roger lay beside his friend, on top of the covers, his fingers laced behind his head. There was a certain comfort he found, lying there with Mark at his side. He needed that. He needed quiet, and dark, and stability.

His eyes closed.

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The late afternoon sunlight glared through the windows, or tried to, but that wasn't what woke Roger. It was the insistent ringing of the telephone in the living room, and the hurried voice that answered it, and then tried to settle whoever was on the other line. Roger blinked several times and looked to his side. Mark was still sleeping, flat on his back, his light hair fully tousled, his lips barely parted. Roger pushed himself up and rubbed at his face as the door opened, and Benny stuck his head in. "You're up. Good. You've got a pissed-off woman looking for you."

"What?" The comment took a moment to register, and to Roger's embarrassment he found himself running through a mental catalog of names before landing on the right one. "Oh, shit. Mimi." He bounced off the bed, hearing Mark complain at being jostled. The phone was snatched from Collins' ear and placed to his. "Mimi? Honey, it's okay. Yeah, I'm sorry, something happened . . .no, we're fine, just met some idiots in an alley. I should have called, are you okay? Yeah?" He walked into the hallway as far as the cord would allow, and his voice faded.

"Don't think he'll tell her, do you?" Collins asked, watching Roger with a grin.

"Hope not." Benny shook his wrist until his watch spun face side up, and looked at it. "Shit. I gotta go, it's almost six. When did Nate say he'll be back?"

"Probably not for another two hours or so."

Benny sniffed at his clothes and grimaced. "Damn. Gotta stop by my place and grab some clothes. Told Brooks I can't play basketball in this suit, but he cornered me when I left the office. Had to play a game." He walked to the kitchen.

Collins followed. "That explains why you look like you did when you got here. How'd you get off work early?"

Benny merely raised his eyebrows. "You're kidding, right?" He ran the faucet, filling a glass with water, gulped it down thirstily, and gave a satisfied sigh. "Try and keep them here, will you?"

"I don't think Mimi will like that." Collins grinned toward the hallway.

"Not much choice. You know what Nate said. These two don't know it yet."

Collins thought back to the strange conversation, and nodded. "I'll watch out for them and explain things. And hey," he grabbed Benny's arm as the other man started to leave, "don't think this changes anything, you got some shit to make up for with those boys." His amiable gaze was suddenly tinged with frost. "But you watch yourself."

Benny slowly pulled away. "Yeah. You too." He let his gaze linger on Collins, and walked out.

Roger emerged from the hall and gestured sheepishly with the phone as he hung up. "I forgot, I was supposed to meet Mimi for lunch at two." He sulked over to the sofa. "She's pretty pissed, but more because she was worried than because I stood her up."

"Come on, you didn't stand her up," Collins replied tiredly.

"Essentially."

"Did you ask to get beat up in an alley? No? All right then." He looked Roger over, then sat at his desk and eyed his books. "Look, Nate's coming back by later. Benny thought it would be a good idea for all of us to stick together for a bit."

"And . . .Benny left. So ixnay the ondingbay. Just because he's here, doesn't mean I have to get along with him."

Collins wanted to say something along the lines of, 'I hear ya', but he couldn't do that. "I thought all that was long past us. He did ease up on the whole rent thing. You guys got to stay."

"That's not it. And you know this is a temporary fix. They're still going to tear the place up."

Collins' hand fell from rubbing his forehead. "He isn't a sell-out, Roger. He got married. And divorced."

"So hooray for the martyr! We were close, Collins. Tight. You do remember, right?" Roger's voice rose. "We were like the goddamn four musketeers. It's no wonder Maureen moved out when she did."

"We can be again, if you'll let us." Collins let his gaze linger. "She didn't stick around long though, did she? Course that place doesn't really suit five people living together. Hardly suits three."

"Not like she was around that much in the first place."

"Not like Maureen and Mark got much privacy. Bet that didn't help her case, any."

"Nah, Maureen just found out she likes cats better." Roger looked up at a shadow crossing the room, and couldn't hide his smile. "Speak of the devil."

"Thought I heard my name taken in vain," Mark groused, rubbing his face. His pale lashes were trying to flutter open, but for the most part he was sleepwalking.

Roger crossed the room and steered him toward a chair. "How you feel?"

"Like shit."

"Tea?"

"Absolutely." Mark fell bonelessly into the soft chair. His head lolled back and his eyes closed.

Roger nodded. "Collins, we got to get you a coffee maker."

"Harms my metabolism. You didn't get enough sleep?" Collins asked Mark wryly, but giving him a stern lookover.

"Screw you. Kept having the weirdest dreams. Thanks." His eyes had opened, and he accepted the lukewarm mug that Roger handed him. He sipped carefully. "Felt like I was waking up, but I never really did. So I didn't really sleep, either."

"What sort of dreams?" Roger asked, sitting across from Mark and leaning forward attentively.

"Probably of the two of you snuggled up together all cute like bugs in a rug," Collins teased deeply.

Mark popped to attention. "What?"

"I was tired. Sue me. What dreams?"

Mark gave Roger a rather incredulous look before shaking it off. "I don't know. Nightmarish stuff, not in the sense that there was any danger, but that I couldn't make sense of what I saw. Just . . .jumbled up stuff, colors, sounds, thoughts. I kept trying to sort it all out, but I couldn't."

"Sound to me like you're adjusting to this new power of yours," Collins said simply.

"Cut it out," Mark muttered around his mug.

"What? It makes sense. Everything that we're doing is more an outward thing, you know? You've got all this inner crap going on. You gotta find a way to adapt."

"What about you soaking up everything you read?"

"Maybe my brain's bigger than yours," Collins quipped back.

Mark just winced at him. "Anyway, that's not it. Probably just a result of having the crap beat out of me. Again." His eyes closed, and he relaxed. It was the only way he didn't hurt. His eyes opened to silence, and to find the two men looking at him. "What?"

"Nothing. You're just cute when you're asleep," Collins teased.

"God, I'm going home," Mark moaned.

"Nope. Gotta stay here for a while."

"Courtesy of our landlord, who not only governs our household and lives, but our new abilities as well," Roger muttered.

Mark turned to Collins. "How are we going to live through this?" he asked.

Collins sighed with a smile. "One day at a time, my friend."

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Nate showed again, but it was late in the evening. He entered without knocking and tossed a bag onto the kitchen counter. "Thought you might be hungry. I brought sandwiches," he casually called out as he removed his coat and draped it over a chair, then started unpacking the bag. It took a moment for him to register that there were no voices, no bodies crushing in to get at the food the way he figured hungry males were prone to do. "Hello?"

He turned. He peeked around the small half-wall that divided the kitchen from the main living area. There was nobody there.

Nate sighed and walked to the center of the room. He eyed the area, turned in a circle in disbelief, confirming that there was in fact no one around, and yelled out, "You left your door open!" He flung his arms out in exasperation and returned to the kitchen to eat his food.


	3. Chapter 3

"You sure this is right?" Mark felt himself being shoved into the familiar loft, protesting at each step. "Nate wanted us to. . ."

"Nate is a crackpot. Trust me." Roger shut the door behind them, agitated. "He's bullshit. This is some big, elaborate prank pulled by our former buddy, who's trying to get a bit of his own back at us for being decent people." He removed his jacket and tossed it onto the table.

Mark just shook his head, putting his hands to it, standing in the center of the large room. "You just can't get over him, can you?" He looked up. "Aren't we done with all that?"

"Are you?"

"I guess. I mean, it's better to be, isn't it?" Mark tossed the question out casually, then sighed and walked to the sofa. "So, what are you gonna do? See Mimi?"

"I don't know. I just had to get out of there." Roger was pacing, running a hand through his hair.

Mark nodded knowingly. "He got to you. Nate. Something about this has you scared to death."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look at yourself! Since when are you nervous about anything?"

Roger realized he was pacing, and stopped. "What do you know about it?"

Mark's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "I know there is something going on. You feel something, and you won't tell me what it is." He cast around for a comparison. "It's-it's like you just woke from a nightmare that you're trying to forget."

Roger realized he was sweating. He ran an astonished hand over his face. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. I can see your pulse racing from here. Sit down." He stood and reached out.

"I said I'm fine, damn it! Just stop it with the whole oversensitive- ESP crap!"

Mark cringed from the outburst. He stepped back, then planted himself, staring defiantly at his friend, giving him some space to be angry without backing down. "Doesn't take any mysterious power to see something's wrong," he said, rather sullenly.

Roger sighed and complied, realizing his body language was giving him away. He threw himself onto the sofa. "I'm just tired."

"Don't doubt it." Mark dropped down beside Roger, looked at him, and unconsciously started to rub his friend's arm, soothing him. "It's been a busy day, that's all." He kept rubbing his friend's arm, not thinking anything of it.

But Roger was. He felt his eyelids droop heavily, felt his breathing steady. "Wow," he muttered. "I _am_ tired. Didn't know how pissed I was, either. Weird."

Mark suddenly realized what he was doing and checked up, but didn't stop. "Why are you so angry?"

"I don't know." He felt better, like after taking a sip of alcohol, like everything was going to be okay, if just for a little while. "Guess I'm – scared. I don't like to be scared." He shifted. "This is all just too weird, you know? What's even more weird is, how we're taking it. Shouldn't we be freaking out or something?"

"I'm freaking out on the inside."

"Man, this is nice." Roger burrowed deeper into the cushions. "Why's your hand so hot? I can feel it through my shirt."

"Adrenaline, I guess." Mark stopped rubbing, but kept his hand on Roger's arm, very self-conscious of the fact that Roger looked too damn relaxed. "Look, you're not...I mean...this isn't..."

Roger snapped up. "What the hell? I just said it felt good, I didn't say stroke me or anything!"

"I was just. . ."

"No, forget it." Roger sighed again. Then he raised his head again, his brain finally registering what his eyes had told him, what had bothered him since he first pulled Mark away from Collins' place, why he was so irritable. What had happened. He stared at Mark hard enough to make the other man cringe, then yanked him to his feet, and pushed him across the room to look into the small bathroom mirror.

"Roger! What the hell are you . . ." Mark's sentence was cut off as he stared at his face. His nearly unblemished face.

His hand slowly rose to cup his cheek. He angled his chin. Roger was standing at his shoulder, his face visible, and uncertain. Slowly the hand lowered.

"Seems you have another gift," Roger said softly.

Mark stared at his reflection in disbelief. He could almost see the heavy bruise fading, feel smooth yet prickling sensation underneath the skin. "This can't be right."

"Like any of this is." Roger raised Mark's hand. "Looks normal. Feels like a fucking furnace."

Mark hesitated, then put his hand to the cut on Roger's lip. Roger jerked back, but Mark grabbed the back of his neck, holding him in place as he cupped his hand over Roger's mouth, and closed his eyes.

It almost felt like being abducted. Roger tried to back away, then felt himself falling, relaxing, only he was still standing. His head swam, and it was all he could do not to let himself sink, to land on the edge of the toilet seat. When Mark released him, that's exactly what he did.

Mark just looked at him, and slowly backed away. He turned and walked out without a word.

This prompted Roger to stand quickly and look at his reflection. There was a bright pink spot where the cut had been. Roger touched it, and instantly wondered if Mark could heal other wounds.

Deeper, sickly wounds.

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"You'd be surprised how many people would love to have your gift," Nate said quietly. He had appeared from nowhere in his uncanny way earlier that evening, seeming to know when he was needed. It had occurred to Mark that no one had a way to get in touch with the mysterious man, yet he always managed to show up in time to answer a question, or help one of them cope with a new skill. It took only once glance for Nate to ascertain what was bothering Mark, and Mark only had to hold up a hand to tell him exactly what the problem was. "This is instinctual. It branches out from your natural compassion that allows you to sense what you do about people. Now, focus."

Mark just stared.

"You're not focusing."

On the contrary, he was focused, incredibly focused. The wind that tore over the rooftop chilled him, but not as much as what just happened. "You – you just sliced your arm open!"

Nate rolled his eyes. "And it hurt like bloody hell!" he gritted. "Now fix it."

Mark felt something akin to panic. "Are you nuts? I-I can't! Wh– "

Nate snatched Mark's hand and placed it on the bleeding wound. "You can."

Mark breath caught in his throat as he tried to yank his hand back in disgust. "I don't know how to do this!"

"You've already done this! Just close your eyes. Tap into the Source. Picture the blood slowing, the skin healing." The voice would have been calm if not for masking the pain.

Mark fought to pull away, but Nate held him tightly. He felt the warm stickiness clotting underneath his fingers, and gagged, tugging. "No. No, I can't do this, don't make me do this," he said gutturally.

"Are you afraid?"

"No! It's not that. I think this is cool, I mean . . .I-I'm just not the right person for this." He still wanted desperately to pull away, but Nate wasn't letting him.

"Who would you recommend?"

"I don't know. Arnold Schwarzenegger?"

"He's not good enough."

Mark barked a laugh.

Nate sighed and squeezed Mark's hand onto his arm, wincing. He didn't look at the smaller man. His eyes roamed the city, the lights twinkling in the polluted haze below him. For a moment he looked older, the grey streaks in his hair standing out in the reflecting street lights. "You say you aren't the right person for this, showing me that you still do not understand. This is who you are. You have these abilities because of who you are. Why is that so difficult to comprehend?" There was no answer. "There are a lot of people out there counting on you, Mark."

"Don't say that."

"They're counting on all of you."

"But me in particular. Don't think I don't know. I've seen you watching me, I know that all this brow beating is for a reason. They always say the teachers rag on the kid with the most potential." He had stopped trying to pull away, albeit reluctantly, letting the warmth from his hand fill the wound.

"And here I thought you weren't much for stereotypes. That's the second time in this conversation you've referred to one."

"So I'm wrong?"

Nate smiled and returned his attention to the city below them. "No. You're correct, but not for the reason you think."

"Then why? What's going on?" Nate said nothing. He gently pried away Mark's grip and studied his healed flesh. He flexed his fingers, and turned to go, prompting an outburst from the frustrated man. "Dammit, can't you just tell me? For once, can't you just play this straight? I think I've earned that!"

Nate stopped. He pulled his shoulders back, and for a moment Mark thought he was going to get his way. "No," Nate said flatly, and walked on.

Mark gritted his teeth and turned angrily back to the distorted view below him, ignoring the drying blood on his hand.

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Benny walked into the office the next day, his suit feeling too tight over his squared shoulders. He rolled his neck from side to side, releasing the tension. He wasn't normally nervous about meetings, hell, half his workday was meeting with people, but for some reason this felt different. He took a deep, calming breath and opened the door, seeing four people push their chairs back and stand to greet him. He shook hands over the table, wondering if they sensed anything in his grip.

Nate had coached him about the power of influence. That it was in the eyes, in the confidence portrayed, and especially in a firm handshake. He always knew he could be persuasive. Now he seemed ready to conquer. All during the week he had sealed deals that would have seemed improbable, if not downright impossible, in the previous month. His bonus was assured, and then some, and he already knew how to spend it.

But now, he was nervous.

He met their eyes, kept his grip firm, and followed every hint of body language that Business-101 taught. He reached out from his fingers in an invisible wave and could feel the client's intention with each pump. All of these thoughts that raced through his head took place in the amount of time it took to shake four hands, and for the door to open and admit a fifth, and late, arrival.

Benny turned, and his stomach clenched. He had no idea why, and proceed to shake the fifth hand offered.

He felt nothing.

And suddenly he knew why he was nervous.

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"It was like the man had no soul," Benny explained later. He looked at Roger, who had snorted. "What?"

"I don't know, the whole 'no soul' thing seems a bit ripe, coming from you."

"What the hell?" Benny straightened from where he was leaning on Collins' kitchen counter.

"I'm just saying." Roger waved the expression away and leaned against the small breakfast bar, folding his arms. On the other side, Collins watched, saying nothing. His expression was one of tolerance, like watching the same temper tantrum from the same set of kids for the millionth time.

"You're just saying crap! You got a problem with me?"

"Should today be any different?"

Benny put his hands on his hips and stared Roger down. The other man didn't flinch. "You wanna explain that?"

Nate looked at Collins, who shrugged and stayed out of it.

"How can we trust you after what you did?"

"What?" Benny laughed. "Is this about that whole rent thing?"

"It's about the fact that you lied to us!"

"That-that was over a year ago! I had no choice! Besides who paid for Angel's funeral, huh? Who put Mimi in rehab? Who got her the best care after she fell ill?"

"Well of course you did it for _her_!"

"What about Angel's medical? Who took care of that?" He bowed up in Roger's face, nearly nose to nose, posturing. "Who kept you guys in that loft? Who's still fighting to keep you there?"

"What are you, martyr-man?"

"I'm saying this grudge you've been holding has gone on long enough!"

"He's right," Collins said.

Roger spun to him, and turned back to Benny as though uncertain who to attack. "Look, I"ll decide when it's time to end the grudge, all right?"

"That figures. It's all about you, anyway," Benny huffed.

"You betrayed us!"

"I saved you!" he yelled, jabbing his index finger painfully into Roger's chest. "You think for a moment that my ex-father-in-law cared if you got tossed out into the street? I _saved_ your asses! And I paid for it! Besides, this isn't about that! This is you being scared because I can afford to take care of Mimi! I'm divorced, and you feel threatened."

"That's crap."

Benny stared him down, nose to nose. "You are a child," he said pointedly. "You've got so much crap inside that you don't know how to deal with, so you take it out on who you can. Even Mark's got past this. Why the hell can't you?"

"Because you were the one person I trusted, and you screwed me over!" Roger yelled at the top of his lungs. He was suddenly glad Mark wasn't around. Both Benny and Collins look startled.

"Me?" Benny asked, his voice lower.

Roger looked like he wanted to cry after his outburst. His hand waved about helplessly, and he let himself collapse back against the counter limply. "I know. Mark's my best friend, but at the time . . . I don't know. He'd do anything for me, and I didn't want that." Roger fought to explain as thought he didn't understand the reasoning himself. "I trusted him with my life, I still do, but you . . .you had this strength that I needed. During all that with April, her death, those few months after, you were the one that brought me down to earth. Mark was a shoulder to cry on. You were a rock. God, this sounds pathetic." He rubbed at his face. "Collins had gone. You were the one stable thing I had, and you turned on me." He sniffed, looking at the floor. "Happy now?"

"Why the hell didn't you say something?" Benny asked quietly.

"You had your new life. You had your girl, new money, people to impress. Why the fuck would you want to deal with me?"

"But it made you and Mark closer. He put up with a lot of crap through your withdrawl, you know, and he stayed with you. I didn't."

"And yet again, when I needed that rock I got nothing."

Benny looked like he'd been slapped. His face pulled back in a pained grimace. "I'm sorry, man. I had no idea."

"Yeah well, now you do." Roger was uncomfortable. He hazarded a glance at his old friend, wondering if they could become friends anew. Benny's hesitant, then sudden embrace answered that question for him.

"Take more time, if you need to," he muttered, "but know I'm here for you. I never left."

Roger merely nodded into his shoulder.

Collins straightened, blinking in astonishment at the display. "Daaaamn," he said, and the two men instantly parted. "I need to get me someone to bitch about for a year."

Nate took that moment to calmly walk up to them. "Finished?" he asked. He waited until two sets of eyes settled on his. "Good. We've got work to do." Nate pulled out a map of the city and spread it on the table. "These areas that are marked in red are places where, in past years, the same ancient designs that are on this artifact we found. I think it signifies a power vortex."

"A what?" Roger asked, allowing one more sniff as he tried to refocus. He felt better, but very embarrassed.

"A place where power can be channeled," Collins supplied. "Sometimes it can be used to open a portal to another dimension." Roger stared at him. "What? I've been reading."

"Only in this case," Nate added, "we're not talking about a portal, but more of a power map. These places were once thought to be natural veins, so to speak, for power to travel, similar to ley lines." He pulled out a black marker and started to connect the sites. "The Museum of Natural History," he crossed town, "this small park, there are a lot of old trees there. . ."

"That's hardly a park."

"It's trees and a bench. It qualifies," Nate muttered. He continued to draw lines, going from old churches to bars in dilapidated alleyways. The lines merged, then pointed to a spot just outside the city. "Here." He dotted the spot with a loud thump of his marker. "This is it."

Benny leaned over and studied the map. He looked up. "This is what?"

"This is where it should be." Nate pulled out the small ceramic piece he held. "This is where we will find the rest of this."

Collins straightened from his own examination of the map. He took the small ceramic piece and looked at it. "You want us to go out there and look for a pot?"

"It holds substantial power."

"Not if it's busted," Collins chuckled.

"Buddy," Benny gestured to his friends, "we got power already. What do we want with more?"

"Do you remember that man you met? The man with no soul?" Nate nodded at Benny's stricken expression. "That's why we have to find this. They want it, too. Get Mark, and go there. Tonight."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"This is insane. How the hell are we supposed to find a pot in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night?" Benny cursed as he jerked the Rover around a corner and onto a highway exiting the city.

"This is hardly the middle of nowhere," Mark muttered, angling the map in the small beam provided by Roger's flashlight. "The middle of nowhere would be like . . .Oklahoma or something."

"It's a field. There are no buildings. It's the middle of nowhere."

"You grew up in the city, didn't you?" Benny didn't respond, he just turned up the heat in the Rover.

Roger was feeling carsick, facing the back. He passed the light to Collins and returned his sight to the road ahead, easing his queasy stomach. "What are we supposed to do with this thing, anyway?"

"Give it to Nate and forget any of this ever happened?" Collins offered as he took over lighting the map.

"I don't know, I kinda like having this. . .power." Benny shrugged. "Damned convenient at work."

"For me too," Collins admitted. "Just saying it ain't natural."

"What's natural?" Mark asked, provoking a groan from Roger in the front seat.

"Don't get him started," he said.

"Who?" Benny frowned.

"Either one of them. Mark'll start in on his inability to film reality and Collins will go in on his theory that reality isn't what we make of it but is a series of coincidence that combine to influence our way of thinking." There was silence in the Rover. Roger noticed, and shrank into himself.

"So . . .we should be there in about ten minutes," Mark said, still looking at Roger.

"Provided this place exists," Collins added.

"Oh, cut it out," Roger muttered.

It was, in fact, fifteen more minutes before they reached the pull-off. Roger though it was damned convenient that there was a pull-off, then cursed himself, determined not to say anything in light of their previous conversation. He opened the glove box and pulled out Benny's flashlight. Collins handed Roger's back to him.

They exited the Rover and found themselves lighting up a small field with trees stretching into a semi circle further from the road. Mark crackled the map down into a fold, smoothing the crease as he took in the area. "So, what, we just look now?"

"How the hell?" Roger swept his beam over the area. The grass was grown nearly as high as their knees, and looked mashed down in places. "He can't be serious."

"Not gonna be easy," Benny agreed, shining his light over the space. "But we're not gonna find it standing here. Pair off. You and Mark, me and Collins."

Roger glanced back at Mark. The teams split and headed to either side of the clearing.

"Watch for ant beds," Mark said, gingerly stepping through the grass.

"Yeah, great, thanks," Roger sighed. "That's what I need, to be eaten alive by killer ants."

"Not killer. Not to me, anyway." He wondered vaguely if Roger's medical condition would worsen if he were allergic to bites.

Roger's next comment brought him to a heart-stopping halt. "Course I guess you could just heal me."

Mark didn't move. The taboo subject had been approached. Roger pressed on for several yards before realizing he wasn't being followed. He shone the beam at Mark, careful to keep it out of his face. "What is it?"

"What did you just say?" His voice trembled.

Roger frowned and walked back to him. "I said you could just heal me. The bites."

"Oh." He felt like his insides crumbled.

Roger squinted at him. "What did you think I meant?"

"I – I thought . . ."

"You thought I meant my HIV, didn't you?"

"Did you?" Mark's voice was small.

Roger said nothing. His chest hurt like a thousand pound weight was on it. "Yeah," he said softly, "I think I did."

Mark exhaled forcefully, his shoulders slumped. He searched the ground for support, and knew he wouldn't find any. "Roger, god I – Jesus. I don't know."

"I know."

"I mean I . . ."

"I know! Forget it."

"No!" He reached out and grabbed Roger's arm. "Listen to me. I thought about it. Shit, ever since you showed me my reflection in the mirror, you know what my first thought was after I saw that my cut was healing? It was that I could take this from you. I want nothing more."

"Then what's stopping you?" Roger asked tightly.

Mark was breathing heavily. "I can't do it." His voice broke. "I tried to. I swear I tried to . . .but it didn't work."

Roger's chest pain grew. "What do you mean, you tried?"

"I didn't want to tell you, because I couldn't do it. I don't know why. Maybe that takes a different kind of healing, not like a wound. I – fuck I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry!" Mark broke completely at the despair he saw in his friend's eyes.

Roger said nothing. He just held his friend loosely as he fought to hold back his own tears. He had hoped. He had hoped so damn hard.

Mark sniffed. "We should get moving."

"Yeah." Roger slowly released him, and composed himself, giving Mark a chance to do the same. He was aware of a warmth between them, like a barrier had been crossed. There was suddenly no doubt in his mind that he would do anything for his friend, and that his friend would so anything for him. The tensions that had built up over the past two years suddenly eased. In that moment, all was forgiven, the shit with Mark, with Benny, even the fear and regret over April and Mimi. He suddenly felt lighter, boundless, and his energy seemed limitless. Screw his illness. It made him what he was . . .a fighter. The realization nearly made him laugh, and he could sense Mark's confusion. "Forget it. Let's go." He threw an arm over Mark's shoulder. It was apparent that he felt the change as well, because he didn't flinch. Roger pulled him into a one-sided hug and released him, increasing his steps. "Come on, we're falling down on the job."

"Right." Mark refocused, eyeing the flat spots. They seemed to make a dizzying trail. His eyes followed the curves as they walked on.

"Benny!" Roger called out. "No luck?"

"No," he called back, "just out here freezing my ass off!" Roger chuckled and kept walking.

Mark has stopped again. His vision adjusted to the dark as the light bobbed on ahead of him. He felt something, a surge of energy, almost excitement. "Guys, turn off your lights," he called out.

"What?"

"Turn off the lights!" They did so, mumbling in the distance. Mark nodded and chose a flat path, and followed it. "Look, find a path where the grass is mashed down. Follow it. Each of you start at a different spot." He heard more mumbling, questioning, and ignored it. He followed his own path, and they followed theirs.

They merged in the center of the field. Collins looked up. "I'll be damned." His sight now adjusted, he took in the area.

Mark nodded, backing down his path. He spied a tree in the distance with branches low to the ground, ran toward it, and started to climb. The others stayed in their spots, waiting for the revelation that they knew was coming. And Mark gave it to them.

"It's a spiral. Like what's on that ceramic. It's the exact same pattern!"

"I'll be damned," Collins muttered. He laughed.

Roger smiled. They'd found it, but had no idea what finding it meant. He looked back to where Mark was, turning on his light and shining his beam toward him.

It caught a pair of unfamiliar eyes in the distance, crouched low, watching them.

Roger yelled out, hearing Mark do the same as his senses suddenly kicked into overload. "Everyone back to the car!"

Men ran at them from all corners. Roger crouched, ready, hearing the angry shouts, pushing Benny and Collins away from him and toward the Rover. "Get out of here, now!"

"Shit!" Collins yelled, seeing the men, seeing Roger prepare himself, seeing Mark stuck in the tree with a man climbing for him. The car would have to wait. He ran for the tree as Mark kicked out in self defense.

Benny was knocked to the ground before he'd realized their attackers had closed in. He fought back, years of fighting for his life in the gutters kicking in. Even so, it was the first time he'd seen Roger fight, and he took pause.

The man was a natural, and a blur. There was no point in following the actions, or even worrying about him. He was more than holding his own. He threw off the man holding him, saw Collins being attacked under Mark's tree, and Mark being pulled from a branch. He ran to them.

Roger fought without thinking, without planning, just letting his body take over, the same body that seemed so intent on giving out on him. But not now. Now it was fluid, well, strong, and hell-bent on rescue. He downed man after man, fists flying, his kicks knocking jaws loose. He saw the other three struggling, saw one man trying to pull Mark into the darkness of the treeline, and something inside him broke.

With a raging cry, he went berserk.

No one could say later exactly what had happened, or why. But within minutes the men that could still stand were running, Collins and Benny were leaning against each other, gasping, stricken by what they saw. Mark was on the ground, regaining his breath, his eyes bright and lit from within. He actually scurried backwards as Roger approached him, and it was enough to make Roger hesitate before hauling his friend to his feet. "You guys okay?"

"Wh-what the fuck was that shit?" Benny breathed.

"Me getting pissed because someone was messing with the wrong people," he said calmly, watching Mark regain his equilibrium. "You okay? You're eyes are funny."

Collins and Benny looked at him, wincing. "He's right," Collins said, taking a step forward. "They look almost . . .silver."

"It's the dark," Mark said quickly. "Let's go before those guys decide they want to come back."

The others agreed and hurried to the Rover. Collins shoved Mark in as Benny started the engine. "I'll tell you this," Benny said hurriedly, "those guys were like that one I shook hands with that day. I knew it when I touched them."

"Souless?" Roger asked.

"Uh-huh. Like the devil himself."

"I don't need to know that," Mark said. "Really don't need to know that." Benny pulled out onto the road and floored it.

"Bet Nate'll be happy to hear about this," Benny continued.

"What?" Roger asked beside him. "That we found a fucking crop circle? He'll be overjoyed."

"It's something!"

"It's not a pot."

"Maybe it's not supposed to be a pot!"

"Then where the hell did the ceramic piece come from?" Roger shouted.

"Hell if I know!" Benny shouted back. "I just know it has a spiral, that damn piece that Nate won't part with has a spiral on it, and he should know!"

"Fine, you tell him! Tell him we had a sign and we smashed it to bits fighting on it!"

"Step on it, man, there's someone behind us," Collins said suddenly.

"What?"

"Just go! Go, go, go!" he yelled, and Benny stepped on the gas.

The black Rover tore off into the night on a road that should have been much busier than it was, heading back to the city lights in the far, far distance. The car behind them laid on the gas, and bumped them.

"Shit!" Benny swerved. "No he didn't!"

"He did, man, now floor it!" Collins darted a glance behind him. Mark pulled forward and clutched the back of Benny seat, as though the few inches spared would save his life. Frightened eyes jerked from the car behind them to the road before them. The car bumped them again, harder this time, and he slammed into the seat that was supposed to protect him.

"Fuck!" Roger's hand flew to his head, cradling where he had smashed it against the dash board. He wrestled with his seat belt, struggling to fasten it.

"Where are they? I can't see them!" Benny yelled, looking into his rearview mirror.

"Oh, they're there!" Collins said.

"Where?"

"Behind us, just go!"

Seventy-five, eighty, ninety miles an hour and the Rover was humming. A bump in just the right spot would send them flying in a way they didn't want to go. Just on the edge. . .and that bump came, and they spun, and flipped.

Air and land became one, all surrounded by black metal as the vehicle stopped flipping and screeched across the pavement, landing upside down in a ditch, smashed. The wheels spun and smelled burned. Steam poured from the hood. The car that caused the wreck had skidded to a stop; now it pressed on, seeing no movements from inside. But they didn't wait long enough.

A window busted out. Roger's heavy boot was exposed and disappeared, followed by his head as he forced himself out of a small, crushed hole. He rolled onto the ground, shaking, aching, bleeding. There was a sound of coughing from inside, a groan, followed by another and some cursing. Roger winced, half on his back, half on his side, his bloodied hands held in front of his face. He didn't want to move, he couldn't, everything screamed out pain. He watched as a dark hand stretched out from the window. "Benny?" he coughed. "That you?"

The fingers splayed, then curled. There was another loud cough, and a full arm wrapped around the edge of the door, pulling out a thick body. Benny managed to upright himself before leaning over and vomiting.

Shit. That wasn't good. Roger could only blink at him, his hands still held before him, his body feeling colder and colder by the minute. "Benny?" His friend slowly raised a hand, staying any further questioning. Again he heard noises from inside, voices, two of them, talking lowly. "Mark?" he tried calling out. "Collins. You guys okay?" His body racked with coughs, and he moaned loudly, unable to stop trembling, every movement tearing through him like knives. "Fuck. Mark? Can you – can you h . . ." he coughed again, and felt someone at his side.

"Easy." Benny was leaning him over so that he could get some air.

"Bleeding," Roger warned.

"Roger, I see that, you don't have to announce every time it happens." Benny coughed again himself, squeezing Roger's arm hard as he did so. "You okay?"

"I – I don't know." Not really. No.

"Hang on. I gotta . . ."

"The others. . ."

"I know." Benny half-staggered back to the demolished vehicle and knelt down, looking inside. Roger could hear more words though he couldn't make them out, and another dark hand emerged. Benny grasped it, and within minutes Collins was lying on the ground, on his back, dazed and unwilling to move. Roger managed to push himself onto one elbow as he waited, and finally a pale hand showed. Mark was pulled out easily, looking well shocked, but none the worse for wear.

Thank god. Roger fell back, and blacked out.

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He woke to a halo of red and blue flashing lights, the white lights steadily lighting the path they'd tumbled from. The Rover shadowed him. He heard voices, heard his name, was aware of someone messing with his hands and his head, felt the pain smashing into his senses, forcing him to take notice. He blinked, wincing, wanting to go back to sleep but the pain was too much. He gasped himself awake, suddenly much more aware than he wanted to be. "Fuck!"

"Sorry." The paramedic almost looked sympathetic, as much as they were allowed to. "Can you tell me your name?"

Roger widened his eyes, forcing his vision to cooperate. "R- Roger Davis," he said between breaths.

"Date of birth?"

"Uh, October twentieth, nineteen-seventy." He yelped in pain. His head jerked up accusingly.

"Easy, almost done here. Do you remember what happened?"

"Rear-ended. . . ." he muttered, trying to relax, resting his head against the ground.

That was all he was asked. He heard words tossed around like, "too fast", "not drunk", "damn reckless" and knew deep in his gut that Benny was in for it. He wasn't sure money would get him out of the inquiry he'd face, and for a panicked moment, he wondered what the proud man would tell the cops. The thought made him raise his head again. "My friends . . ."

"They're being treated. You and mister tough guy over there got the worst of it." The paramedic cocked his head toward the ambulance. "He usually use language like that?"

"Which?"

"The driver."

Roger just snorted painfully and rested his head once again.

The paramedic clapped him on the shoulder. "Can you sit up?" An arm was curled behind him, and Roger felt himself pulled upright. Nausea swam threateningly, his vision blurred. Gingerly, he reached up and tapped the bandage on his head with his thumb. "I – I got HIV, did you get blood on you?" He forced himself to meet the paramedic's eyes.

He held up gloved hands. "We take precautions, and your friend over there told us. He was sitting beside you, wouldn't shut up. Had to practically carry him to the back to check him out."

"Mark?"

"Blond guy? Yeah, that's him."

Roger grinned, then laughed the best laugh he'd felt in a while.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later, he was released from the hospital with instructions to rest and take his medication, two new pills in addition to another supply of AZT, to help prevent infection from his wounds. He swung the door open to the loft, and stared. The place was still clean, and seemed empty. Some homecoming. "Mark? You here?"

"Roger!" Mark appeared from his room. He looked tousled, worn down, but his eyes sparked at the sight of his friend. "I thought Collins was going to get you!"

"They let me out early on good behavior." Roger smiled and embraced his friend, aware of the same soothing warmth he'd felt back at the field. Memories flew back at him, an image of a man dragging Mark kicking and screaming into the darkness. It was a moment before he let go.

Mark pulled back with a puzzled smile. "How'd you get here?"

"Taxi."

"Right. I'll ask again."

"I walked, okay? I needed the air." He fell listlessly onto the couch. The walk had tired him more than he wanted to admit. His cut hands were still bandaged, but not as heavily. His forehead sported a small white gauze pad.

Mark managed an intense exam with a single glance. "You still look like shit," he frowned.

"You always look like shit." Roger responded automatically, then squinted at him. "Take it back. Looks like you healed yourself pretty well."

Mark looked embarrassed. "I didn't want to do anything in the hospital, you know . . .since it wasn't life threatening."

"Yeah, cause we know how you can save people's lives." The warmth that had hovered between them chilled slightly, and Roger fought to get it back. "Where's the others?"

"Food run." Mark joined Roger on the sofa. "Lemme see."

"No. Mark, what the . . ."

"Just shut up and give me your hands!"

Roger sighed and relented. Mark studied them carefully, running his thumb over the bandages. "Right. Take them off."

"You do it."

He looked amused, and slowly unwrapped the gauze, wincing as it stuck to the wounds. "They give you instructions for cleaning this?"

"Yeah. Hey, don't touch it!"

"Relax, will you?" Mark took Roger's hands in his own, and closed his eyes.

Roger tensed, then was filled with a warmth that was unlike anything he'd felt before, like he was drifting in a lovely sleep, his body filled with well-being and, heaven forbid, sunshine. If little rabbits started to scurry out of the woodwork, he'd have to question Mark's intentions. As it was, he felt more relaxed than ever, and wondered if Mark was able to just reach inside and pull this peace from his soul. The thought was quickly dismissed. There was no way the man was _that_ with it. "You've been practicing," he accused softly, his eyes closing in near bliss.

"What else am I supposed to do?" Mark responded softly. "Now be quiet."

Roger was, and felt a burning heat erupt from his fingers, traveling up each digit, centering around the joints before climbing to his wrist. It circled there, gently massaging away the pain of impact that should have damaged the joint, but didn't. It curved in a graceful arch to his palms, both bloodied from the shattered windshield. He was afraid to open his eyes and look, because he was quite certain he didn't want to see the skin stitching itself back together. Some things were just too strange and better left to the imagination. Not that it took much, he could feel the pull, feel the tightness. He winced, fighting the urge to yank his hands away and shake them. Mark held on tightly. Roger ventured a glance, and was dismayed to see a fine sheen of sweat on the man's forehead. He didn't realize healing would cause his friend such an effort. Feeling ashamed and a little put out, he slid his hands back from Mark's grasp before the tingling warmth could start up his arms.

Mark opened his eyes. "What? What is it, did I hurt you?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Then why . . ."

"You just look . . .tired. That's all."

He tilted his head, befuddled, then smiled thinly. "Since when are you worried about me being tired?"

For some reason, the comment stung worse than a wasp. Roger opened his mouth, and realized Mark was right. "Since now."

The lips quirked. Mark raised his brows and sighed, slapping his thighs casually as he stood. "Well, I was done anyway, to tell the truth. I mean, you'll still have a place there, but it'll go away in time."

Roger blinked a few times before holding his hands in front of his face, studying the new skin, the faint lines of his previous injury. "Shit." He looked up.

Mark just shrugged.

There was a loud knock, a troubling sound that turned into a persistent pounding. Roger opened the door, and was forced back into the room by an over-worried form. "I heard what happened, are you okay? Are you both okay?" Nate barreled in, dragging Roger with him before he could close the door.

Roger pulled away in irritation. "We're fine! And where the hell were you?"

"I was tending to business. Are you sure you're all right?" Nate reached out to touch the bandage on Roger head before he jerked away. He sent an accusatory glance to Mark.

"Okay, okay, look, we haven't got that far yet," Mark said, taking Roger by the arm and guiding him to the sofa. He gently pushed him down, but remained standing himself.

Roger looked from Mark to Nate and back. "Is there something I should know?"

Mark gave a deep sigh. "Nate's been . . .helping me. With this." He held up a hand.

"Oh." Roger said, and suddenly wiggled his fingers at Nate like an excited child. "Look! He fixed my hands!"

"I see." Nate sat across from them. "I looked in on Collins. He said Benjamin was having some trouble."

"Benny was driving the car, but the wreck wasn't his fault. I gave the police my statement, why are they still hounding him?" Mark sounded disgusted as he sat beside Roger.

"It is the nature of law enforcement to enforce the law, any law. Unfortunately the Law of stupidity is not excluded." Nate pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. "Anyone can see this was an intended act of violence."

"Sure. Doesn't mean they can catch the guys that did it."

"Billions of dollars spent in the city on surveillance and they can't get the cops to a remote area where it is proven that speeders and idiots abound." He shook his head. "I don't suppose you found anything?"

"Other than goons who wanted us dead?" Roger snapped. His tone had no effect on Nate. "No, no pot, not even a potted plant. Why's this thing so important, anyway?"

"The true value can not be expressed adequately."

"Even if it's busted?"

"Even so."

Roger smacked out a laugh of disbelief. "Then why don't you just sell the piece you have and let someone else look for it? Personally I don't think that thing is worth my life!"

Nate growled in aggravation and stood. "Because I – never mind. You wouldn't understand if I told you." He gathered himself, pulling his customary dignity around him like a cloak. "Well. I suppose the stage is set for the next scene."

"Which is?"

Nate smiled crookedly. "Now if I were to tell you that, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?"

"You never said anything about surprises."

"Didn't I? Well, that's one right there, then, isn't it?" He smiled devilishly. "I am glad to see you are relatively unharmed. Listen out for me. You'll know when the time comes."

"That's hardly helpful," Mark yelled out as Nate closed the door behind him. He sighed and turned to Roger. "Why didn't you tell him about the spiral?"

"Didn't feel like it."

"Oh, so now you get to dictate who knows what around here?"

"I want to see if it's still there. If it is, we'll tell him. If it isn't, there isn't much use in it."

Mark looked at him askance. "Yeah. And how are we supposed to get there?"

Roger looked around the loft as though a car was going to present itself from a corner. "Shit."

"Guess we can use the one Benny will rent. Provided they ever let him drive again."

"If Nate knew where this place was, why didn't he go there himself?"

Mark had no answer. "Ever feel like you're being used?"

"All the time." Roger leaned his head back, and said nothing more.

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Roger's mood deteriorated. Lack of sleep, the downfall of adrenaline, he didn't know what the problem was. His warm fuzzy was gone. He actually made certain at one point to brush against Mark, and felt nothing but cool air. The fact that Mark looked so worn out bothered him, he wondered just how hard Nate had been working his friend. He retreated to the bathroom take a piss and sulk, heard the loft door open, and peeked out through the cracked door.

"They found them," Collins said without preamble, limping into the loft on his sore leg. "Turns out it was a bunch of drunk teenagers. Had nothing to do with us."

Mark looked up from folding his shirts, and shook his head. "That's impossible. We saw them, they . . .they vanished into the trees, not a car." He flung down the shirt he held. "Unless they had a car hidden in the woods, which I doubt. . .I don't believe it. But where did they come from?"

"Dunno. Pure coincidence," Collins said. "We were so fucking scared out of our minds that we thought we were being chased. That car appeared behind us the minute we hit the road, only further back. It wasn't them."

"I don't believe it."

"If we'd just kept our heads. . ."

"Hey, you were the one yelling for us to move!" Roger spoke up as he exited the bathroom. He tugged at his pants as he buttoned the top.

"So I jumped the gun!"

"Just remember that." Roger flopped onto the sofa and picked up his newspaper, flicking it crisply. Mark glared at him and yanked a pair of pants out from under Roger's hip. Roger merely glared back.

Collins leaned over him. "Did what I say even register between those ears?"

"The police got them. Drunk kids. Got it." He didn't look up from his paper.

"Ignore him. He's been like this all day." Mark sighed and looked at what was left of his laundry, wondering why he was even bothering to fold it. Restless energy filled him, and he grabbed his jacket. "I'm going to the Life café, you wanna come?"

"Better than watching him sulk," Collins said, clapping Mark on the back. "See ya, Roger."

"Yeah, whatever," Roger said, flipping the page. He glanced up in time to see Mark open his mouth. "Don't say it." _Don't you dare say it._

"Right." Mark clamped his mouth shut and walked out, right as Roger's beeper went off. Okay, so it was spoken between them. Didn't mean he couldn't get pissed about it, when confronted with life.

He scowled at the beeper and went for his AZT, trying not to let Mark's paler-than-normal face bother him. _Healing power, my ass_.

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Benny had rented a car within a day of the arrests. He had to, there was no way he was going to arrive at work in a taxi, not when he was paying for a premium parking space. It looked like his Rover, so there would be no unwelcome questions that he would have to answer. He wasn't in the mood. His own Rover was in the shop, undergoing extensive body work.

The teens that had hit them were apparently coming back from a party, and were weaving along the road. They saw a nice, shiny car, and decided to play chicken from the wrong end. The driver felt eight levels of remorse and had stopped the car, intending to help, but was urged on by his buddies, all who were now in jail awaiting a court date. It wasn't the first time they had been arrested for a DUI.

All Benny knew was, they were damned lucky. And after a day of careful thought and research in between clients, he was no closer to finding any answers. He and Collins had been calling each other all afternoon, bouncing ideas off one another as to just what this mysterious vessel could be, why it was important, though without knowing what it was there was no way to judge the importance. Collins was reading up on any legend or myth he could find, absorbing knowledge in the way that only he could, yet he was getting nowhere. Benny's searches were not as thorough, and took longer, and yielded nothing.

He walked into his office after a long day and checked his messages a final time. Two canceled meetings for tomorrow, which suited him just fine, and an invitation to meet Mark and Collins at the café, which he passed on. He was still feeling out of sorts from the incident, though it was established that he was physically well. But the whole thing nagged at him. The spiral on the ground, the people that ran out at them, then suddenly retreated. . .what made them retreat? Were they fighting them off that remarkably? There was no question that Roger was. Benny could remember nearly getting the crap beat out of him, so taken aback was he by Roger's new skill. He remembered having to watch, then running to Mark's aid as he was pulled from his tree. And again, when Roger went nuts, he didn't know what to do but watch. Mark, of all people, was the one to pull the man off him, taking a hell of a blow to the stomach afterwards. That had snapped Benny back to the situation at hand, which was trying to stay alive.

Or so he thought. Nothing was said, there just seemed to be an unspoken signal, like these men had found whatever it was they were after, and vanished. It made him want to go revisit the scene. He flipped his watch over and glanced at it, then grabbed his jacket. A hour to get out of the city, and another half hour from the edge, he found the spot. He climbed out of the Rover and shut the door. The sound reverberated like it was the only sound in the world.

The ground was charred. The spiral was gone.

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"You didn't tell me? Why? WHY?" Nate rounded on Benny.

"I just told you! Look, this is the first I've seen of you since it happened, don't be dumping it on me!" Benny was sitting at his desk in his office. It was nearly ten o'clock. Collins and Mark were still out, Roger wasn't at the loft, probably with Mimi. Benny wasn't about to bring Nate back to his place, it was the only space he had that was sane, if the aftermath of a divorce could be called sane. He'd kept all his friends away from his place, he didn't want them to see how bare it was, how much April had taken him for. He had his pride.

Nate paced furiously. "I saw Roger and Mark earlier. They said nothing."

"I can't help you there."

"Even Collins, of course our talk was more along the lines of, 'I'm busy, come back later'."

"Take it he was reading?"

"Studying. Research. At least he's taking this seriously."

"Hey, we're all taking it seriously!" Benny placed his palms flat on the desk before him and leaned over angrily. "You have to realize, it has been just over a week since this shit started. Don't get all pissed if some of us has to take a little longer to adjust."

"That's the problem," Nate said, leaning forward, his hands tucked in his pockets. His eyes gleamed in the dim light. "You're not. None of you are. You're going around like nothing is happening, and dammit, something is about to happen. You can feel it, can't you?" He looked angry, almost evil. "I know you, Benjamin. I know the kind of person you are. You are controlling, you like knowing what is about to happen. And you have a sense of that now, every time you shake someone's hand. But have you used that? Have you elaborated on that? No. You use it to secure your petty little deals here, you've no idea to what extend you can get a read on someone. You deny it, at a time when you need it. You could have sensed about those boys in that car. You could have sensed about those men in the field, every time they touched you. You could have, but you didn't. You refuse, Benjamin. You refuse to accept this on any level other than the superficial, and in the end someone will die because of it, because you should have been able to save them." He leaned back, his nostrils still dilated in anger. "So don't you sit there and tell me you're taking this seriously. Don't you dare."

Benny glared at him, and held out his hand.

Nate straightened, blinking. His breathing evened, and he pulled his right hand from his pocket, clasping Benny's tightly.

Benny felt himself start to shake. He gritted his teeth behind closed lips, his dark eyes falling on the grip. Nate held on to him tightly, not blinking, studying him. Benny held on for as long as he could, and broke the grasp, falling back into his seat. His tired eyes met Nate's accusingly. "You," he said in a low voice, "are not what you seem to be."

"Neither," said Nate equivocally, "are you."

Benny's mouth worked, but nothing came out. His phone rang, and he answered it hotly. "Hello?" He listened, eyes glued to Nate's. His gaze slid to his desk as the news penetrated his stubborn brain, and he blinked. "What the. . .shit. Oh. Shit, yeah, he's here, we're coming." He hung up, looking at the phone, and not Nate. "That was Collins," he said. His mouth worked again, this time over words that he didn't want to express. "Mark's been abducted."

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The rooftop was a normal refuge for the people that lived in the building, but it was surprising how few used it. Maybe he used it because he lived on the highest floor. Either way, he was glad he was the only person up there as he kicked angrily, punched at the air, kicked, punched, jumped and spun, kicked again. A makeshift bag was taking the brunt of his anger. He imagined it was himself, that he was beating himself up over and over for being such a stupid ass, for letting Mark out of his sight, training himself for what it would take to get Mark back.

Collins had exploded into the loft an hour earlier and snatched up Roger's phone without even speaking to him. Roger had stood at his shoulder, panic filling him, because Mark hadn't come in yet. And Collin's words to Benny, given while looking Roger in the eyes, killed him.

He wouldn't come down to talk to them. Nate had said to leave him alone, because in this state he was useless to talk to, anyway. All tact, as usual.

What the hell did he know, anyway?

Roger fought the bar until he had no stamina left. Even then, he aimed kicks, feeling his heart race, his mind grow fuzzy, his body screech in protest. His chest hurt, his limbs shook, and he fell into an embrace, feeling strong arms wrap around him.

Collins dragged him to the folding chair that stayed on the roof. "Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?" he asked the gasping man angrily. "What the hell is all this?"

"Back off," Roger grunted, shoving Collins away.

"I'll be damned! You wanna explain yourself?"

"Do you?" Roger growled, forcing himself out of the chair. "You were with him."

"Oh, so you're going to blame me for this? Go ahead. You always have to blame someone for anything that happens, so go ahead!" Collins was yelling, and he never yelled. It took Roger by surprise. "Go ahead! Yeah! Tell me how I screwed up! You think I don't KNOW THAT SHIT ALREADY?" He turned on his heel. "I mean, shit! You act like the world's out to get you, like all we do is sit around and think up ways to _piss_ you off!"

"You should have known what was happening!"

"How?" Collins spun. "How the hell was I supposed to know?"

"YOU KNOW THINGS!"

"MARK KNOWS THINGS! I KNOW BOOKS!"

Roger cursed and turned away, bracing himself on the chair. He didn't look at Collins as he spoke in a low voice. "He had to take a piss. What was I supposed to do, follow him? Hold his dick for him?"

"No," Roger said softly.

"Didn't think so." Collins exhaled heavily, blinking back his own tears as he gazed at the stars above them. "Look, I'm sorry man. You have," he hesitated as he choked back his pain, "_no _idea, how sorry I am."

"I think I do." Roger still wouldn't look at him, but he straightened. Silence hung between the two of them, neither feeling like offering an apology. "We have any idea where he is?" Roger asked quietly.

"I'm sure we'll find out someway," Collins said. "Nate's on it."

"He knows things." Roger turned a sorrowful face to his friend. "You think he knew?"

"Like a self-sacrifice sort of thing?"

"They grabbed him when we were attacked. They were trying to take him away."

"They let him go."

Roger just shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts. "He would have known."

"From what I've seen, he knows something is going to happen literally seconds before it does. That's not much of a warning."

"Nate's been working on his healing power. Guess they should've worked on his awareness."

Collins frowned slightly. "Mark hasn't worked on it?"

"Not as far as I know. It's all healing-hands with him. How's Benny?"

"Pissed. Like you."

That was the problem with this strange bond that was forming between them. Any other time, there would be mere concern for each other, not this overwhelming sense of panic that threatened to tear them apart. It was like losing an arm. Roger just nodded. "Look . . ."

"Forget it. Let's just get inside, huh? Freezing out here, winter must be coming early."


	5. Chapter 5

Three days passed. Three days with no word, no clues, nothing to do but wait. Collins practically moved into the loft and threw himself into his research, continuing to learn what he could about ancient vessels that supposedly held power, but found nothing that even remotely resembled what they were dealing with. He was amassing a truckload of knowledge, and would pace his room, quoting, mumbling, totally in a zone that Roger couldn't pull him from. Benny resumed his work with half concentration, his ear towards the phone at all times, his senses searching for a "soulless one". No one came into his office that remotely fit the description, but he did find out that Lisa, the girl that delivered the coffee urns and acted as a gopher, had a crush on him. It was pleasantly amusing, and got him nowhere. Nate appeared and disappeared with no news as to Mark's whereabouts, or what he was doing.

This left Roger to roam the city streets. He visited his old haunts, but all were as soulless as the people Benny was keep an eye out for. His worry was consuming him. Mimi insisted that he would return, she and Joanne and Maureen were out looking as well. Mimi knew something was different, something was up, and she was getting annoyed with Roger for not telling her. Evading questions after the wreck had been easy enough, he just fell back on the truth. But as for the four of them suddenly hanging out together again? What the hell was he supposed to say, anyway? That he could fight, beat the crap out of ten people at once? Yeah, she'd love that. Besides, if she knew . . .the thought of her being kidnapped due to something he was into was intolerable. He was protecting her. He was protecting all of them.

Why Mark? Would they come after him, or Benny, or Collins? They had spent the first day sticking close together, the second day drifting into their activities. It was four o'clock on the third day, and they hadn't even talked. No news, no need. Who the hell were "they", anyhow?

It was six oclock when Roger returned to the loft to hear the phone ringing. "Hello?" he answered breathlessly.

"Roger! Where have you been?"

"Nate! You got news?"

"No. I just wanted to make sure you were there, I'm coming by."

"I'm here, what's going on?"

"I'll tell you when I arrive. Don't go anywhere." The line went dead.

Roger hesitated, then hung up. He looked at his hand, and slowly turned it over, remembering when Mark had healed him. There wasn't even a scar. That warmth. . .he hadn't felt it in a while. He had assumed once they cleaned the air between them that the warmth would remain. Maybe not. But then, was the air really cleared? He remembered how they last parted, how Roger was in such a pissy mood because he was feeling out of sorts, due to his illness, and Mark couldn't fix it. Roger, deep down, was angry that Mark couldn't use his power to cure him. It was normal, it was expected. This was his life, of course he was going to be pissed. But not at Mark, that wasn't right. It wasn't Mark's fault if his talent didn't lean in that direction. He did what he could, and that would have to be good enough. Roger sighed and clenched his hand into a fist, closed his eyes, and forgave Mark right there, remembering that warmth, that openness, and he wanted it back.

_Roger?_

Roger's eyes opened, and he blinked.

_Roger!_

It was in his head. It was wishful thinking. If only the sudden racing of his heart hadn't distracted him . . .

_Roger, please. I heard you, I know I did . . ._

_Mark? _He couldn't hope. His mind was playing tricks.

_Thank god! It's a trap. Don't._

_Mark! What the hell . . .how can you . . .?_

_Device. Hurts. Don't . . ._ _they're coming. . ._

There was a knock on the door. Roger blinked at it, his hand still clenched in a fist. Fear gripped his heart. There had to be a reason Nate wasn't telling him everything. He suddenly wondered why they were sent to that field, rather than Nate going himself. He remembered Nate's words, "Get Mark and go there." He didn't have time to think further as the window burst behind him and the room filled with men, all with blank stares.

Soulless.

It was his last conscious thought.

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Roger could see him. He was shoved roughly forward into a dim room, his eyes glued to his friend, standing very still, looking more worn than ever, his back to a thick pole about a foot in diameter. Several twists of rope wrapped around his chest and abdomen, and his hands were secured behind him. Still, he was alive, he was there in the flesh, and that one thought helped still his panic. "That the best you guys can do?" Roger asked in disgust as he was pushed forward, seeing Mark's head whip up at the sound of his voice. "Thought you would of had some sort of electric cage or something." _Sound brave, good deal. Helps to convince yourself that you are._

"Roger?" Mark's voice was soft with disbelief. His eyes never left Roger as he was shoved alongside Mark and released.

Roger adjusted his jacket, his own eyes not leaving their abductors. "Mark, you okay?" he muttered, trying not to look like he cared. Like that would work.

"I've been better," he admitted in a low voice. "You?"

"Having the time of my life."

Mark actually managed a snort and a half smile. "Figures."

Roger took a step back and cut his eyes down to Mark's wrists. He was dismayed to find, not rope, but a wide steel band encircling them. This wasn't going to be easy at all.

"You act very intelligent, when you allow yourself," an accented voice said. It was deep, and threatening. "But you are not wise."

Roger winced as he searched the area. His abductors had gone, filing away into the dark corners of the room. He took an experimental step back, then one closer to Mark. Seeing no movement, he continued to take small, cautious steps until he stood directly behind his friend, and fingered the metal band. Mark's fingers twitched in response, and he looked over his shoulder.

"Stay still," Roger muttered, his own fingers probing the cuff. There was no sign of a fissure, it was a solid piece of metal that almost looked as though it had been molded to fit. Mark's wrists were pressed together tightly, but not so tight as to cut off the blood flow. "How the hell?"

"I don't know. I woke up like this."

Well, that would explain the ropes holding him up. Roger looked up into darkness. "Don't suppose you could've just let the man sit to take a nap."

"This way he tires much more easily." A man walked from the shadows, and Roger felt his stomach drop sickeningly.

"I wanted to warn you," Mark explained calmly, "after the day of the wreck, can't believe we didn't realize it . . ." he shrugged as best he could.

"I suspected. Too late, of course." Roger looked at the man with all the sour distaste in the world. "Nathaniel Greer."

"The same." Nate stepped forward, his chin raised in amusement.

"What do you want. I mean, what do you really want?"

"I have told you. I want the vessel."

"For yourself. You want all this power for yourself."

"I have my reasons for wanting it, yes."

"You were our friend. You helped us with these powers, dammit!" Roger'd had enough. "You didn't want them for us, you wanted them to serve you!" He charged toward the man that was supposed to be on their side. He heard Mark yell out his name in warning, and felt himself slammed into the floor by an unseen body. His hands were forced behind him by one person, someone else pressed a knee between his shoulder blades. Roger grunted in pain and managed to twist his head around and forced himself to look up at Nate, who stood beside an angry Mark, both watching him. Mark was doing his best to strain forward, anger marring his features, and was hardly able to move an inch.

Nate smiled, his hand reaching out to stroke Mark's light hair as the other man flinched. "I have my prize. He's the one I've been searching for. And amazingly enough, he led me to you." Nate grabbed the hair, giving it a tug, tilting Mark's head side to side. "This little scamp was supposed to be the most powerful of you lot, but guess what?" He released Mark, and walked forward, then crouched down in front of Roger. "We were wrong. What do you think of that?"

"I think you're crazy!" Roger accused, trying to push himself up. He saw Mark strain again, and stilled himself.

"Hm." Nate considered this, and nodded as he stood. "Probably am." He signaled, and the man kneeling on Roger stood and pulled him to his feet with a firm grip. "But then it takes the crazy people to see what ordinary people can't. And I see potential in you, Roger. You can have the whole universe at your feet."

"This is so fucking cliche."

Nate laughed. "It is, isn't it? The bad guy, out to conquer all. The friend who sacrifices himself, the other who fights in his name. The question is. . ." he looked from Roger to Mark, "which one of you will be the sacrifice?" He grinned wildly at the panicked looks exchanged. "I jest! I'm teasing you!" Nate laughed and walked over to Roger, slinging his arm across the angry man's shoulder. "The truth is, I need you both, for now. But after that, just one. So. . .actually," he pursed his lips in thought, "maybe I wasn't kidding. Because the one that is chosen, will die." He shrugged. "It can't be helped. The link must be formed."

"Wait, what link?" Roger asked, pulling away. He stood defiantly, rubbing his wrist where they had been held tightly.

"The link that's created when we all join together," Mark said from the pole. "There's more than us, Roger, more than the four of us. There's people like us everywhere, and Nathaniel here wants what we have."

"Why? Wanna be a god?" Roger huffed, then realized what he said. His body crumpled in disbelief. "Shit."

Nate smiled. "There is a way. All of the power can be channeled into a single means of containment."

"What are you talking about?"

Nate lowered his head. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced, mirroring Mark's static position and making light of it. "Why do you think I need the vessel?"

Roger felt like he'd stopped breathing. "You're insane."

"Probably. This vessel contains power. Now exactly where it originated, I have no clue. It is said that the keeper of his vessel holds the power of the universe. Drop the vessel, and the power is unleashed."

"Wait." Roger stepped forward, questioning. "This really is the thing you were looking for, the thing that matches that ceramic piece you carry around?"

"It is."

"Then you're not lying. This thing is for real?" Roger found himself smiling. "Are you seriously saying somebody dropped a fucking pot and caused all this shit?"

"The vessel is a magical implement. We do not know the true purpose of it, only that all of its power must be contained, or it will destroy the world."

"Uh-huh. And once this power is contained, the vessel goes right into you little Eurocraptastic hands."

"Not mine, no. But I work for a powerful person who would like it very much."

"I bet. If he's so powerful, what does he want with this?"

"Don't be foolish. You know what I mean." Nate snapped.

Roger sized him up. "Right. Exactly how is this supposed to happen?"

"We must make a bridge. I have the two of you, and your friends will be here shortly. Really, I'd be touched by your loyalty to each other if it wasn't such a pain in the arse."

"Yeah, well, we had to work hard at it. Take the lesson, huh?"

Nate smiled. "The others in the world that possess these gifts are aware of what is happening, but they don't understand it. Glimpses, they have, visions of people they don't know. And they will be united by this, when the time comes." Nate looked at Roger steadily. "You are the source. You will be the one to unite the lot of them. Through you all power will merge."

"_Through me?_" Roger didn't know what to say. A thousand questions filled his mind, was it safe, of course not, why him, why this, how, would it hurt, would it. . . "You realize I'm ill."

"I realize your illness has nothing to do with this."

"Except it could kill him," Mark said angrily. He had been listening with growing horror at what was unfolding, and was beginning to realize why he was tied to the pole. He was ready to reach out and throttle someone.

Nate turned slowly with a feral smile, and confronted the bound man. "It could. Do you want to take his place?"

Roger could see that the question took Mark aback. He felt a pain in his heart, because he knew what Mark's answer would be, and he'd be damned if . . . "No. I'll do it."

Mark actually glared at him. "Are you nuts?"

"I hope not."

"You're not doing this."

"Given the choice? Dammit, I'm dying anyway!"

"No, you're. . .damn! Roger!" Mark pulled forward, and yelled out in frustrated anger at his inability to do anything. "Damn it!" He turned his glare to Nate. "Look, I can't leave this room, anyway, what the hell are you keeping me tied up for? Let me go!"

Nate considered it. "No. I rather like the stress it puts him through," he tilted his head toward Roger.

"Sadistic bastard," Roger growled. "Just let him go, for god's sake, it won't make a difference."

"I can't. Not yet." Nate slowly turned to Roger. "Are you ready for this?"

"Roger, no! Don't. Come on, what about Mimi?"

"Cut the melodrama, Mark." He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear all of the reasons he shouldn't do what he was about to, because there was a very good chance he would back out. The alternative to that was Mark's being the victim, and there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

"What favor are you doing her?" Mark was getting desperate, which translated into being seriously pissed off. Roger knew this and fed on it, because a pissed off Mark was easier for him to stomach than a frightened one.

"I'm sparing her pain," he said simply. Too simply.

"Oh, that's bullshit!" Mark raged. "You're just running again! Only this time you die like a hero, but dammit, dead is still DEAD!"

Roger clenched his fist without realizing it. "That's right!" he raged back. "And you'll live to be a hundred, so what does it matter to you?" He strode toward his friend. "Why should you sacrifice yourself, huh? What good would it do any of us to lose you? You're the one that keep us sane!"

Mark's pale brows drew tight over his eyes. His anger faded slightly. "What?" he breathed in disbelief.

Roger exhaled heavily, hating that this little scene was being witnessed, but he knew that there were things that needed to be said, and this might be the only time. . . "Mark, listen to me. You're my brother. You know that?"

"Roger, no. Don't, don't do this . . ." Mark shook his head violently, his feelings rising in a panic. "Don't talk like this!"

"I have to. Now just - shut up and let me. Okay? For once, let me talk, and you listen." He put his hands on Mark's shoulders, feeling him tremble. He couldn't help but look at the ropes binding him tight around his chest, and suddenly wondered at the symbolism of it. "You've done nothing but care for all of us, make sure we're okay, even taking jobs you didn't want because I was too lazy to go out there. . ."

"That's not true and you know it."

"It is true. I was scared to live, Mark. I still am."

"I'll help you!"

"By dying? It's you or me, and quite frankly, your prospects look far better than mine ever could." His eyes met Mark's and held them, even as he heard a yell behind him and knew that Collins and Benny were now on the scene. "You have to trust me. Let me do this for you."

"Now who's being melodramatic," Mark whispered as he noticed the new arrivals. Something lit in his eyes, something that looked like hope. "Look, there's another way out of this. There has to be, we're all here together, we can figure this out."

Roger's words ran over him. "If I do this," he said quickly, "I can block it. I can keep him from getting this power." He grinned. "I'm a fighter, remember? It's what I know. Barroom brawls, girlfriends, parents, this disease," he laughed mirthlessly, "I can fight this bastard too. Block his every move."

But Mark was shaking his head again, even as Collins and Benny ran up to them, full of angry questions, grabbing hold of Roger, looking at the guards that now surrounded them, watching, tugging at the restraints holding Mark, seeing how Roger and Mark wouldn't let go of each other's gaze. Roger finally nodded and pulled back, and walked toward Nate.

"No! Oh, shit, no! Collins, get him! Now!"

Collins zeroed in on Mark's panic. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew it couldn't be good. He saw Roger's retreating back and launched after him without a second thought, tackling him to the ground as the guards closed in. "Davis!" he hissed into Roger's ear, "you better talk to me, what the _hell's_ going on?" He was forced to his feet, cursing, and a remorseful expression met his. Collins looked up to see Nate walking toward Benny, who was still trying to free a panicked Mark. "Nate!" His attention returned to Roger. "What the hell?"

"No time . . ." Roger said quickly.

"No time, be damned. . . Benny, watch out!"

Benny spun, just in time to receive a vicious blow to the head. He fell at Mark's feet, stunned, but conscious.

"Benny!" Roger started for him, and was blocked. The men holding Collins tightened their grip. Mark could only look down, horrified.

Nate bent down and attached a small black square to the man's forehead, immobilizing him. Collins struggled against the men holding him, and the same was done. He was able to watch, but not move. His eyes found Mark's, and he wondered again what the hell was going on.

A square was attached to Mark's forehead, courtesy of a guard. Nate said nothing, merely pointing to his left. Roger glanced at a small chamber encased in glass, with a single dias in the center. Nate nodded. Roger swallowed hard, and walked to it.

_Roger_. The voice was in his head, and he turned in surprise to see Mark watching him, his eyes wide. _Please_.

Was it because of that box that he could hear him? No, that wasn't it. _I have to_, he thought back, wondering if he really saw tears in Mark's eyes, or if he just hoped they were there. It would be nice to be missed.

He stepped into the chamber. It closed around him, sealing him in. He could see his friends watching, immobile, and said a silent farewell. The chamber lit around him, throwing his head back, and the universe exploded.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for reading, and for the reviews!

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Roger groaned and rolled over. His right arm flopped onto a body, and he didn't move, waiting, feeling the breath raise his arm, then lower it. He struggled to turn his head, and was surprised to see small footlights around the perimeter of the room, lighting the area in patches. Blinking cleared his vision. His head felt like molten lead that needed to be poured and re-set. His body did more than ache, it was pain itself. But fear pushed him past this, and he listlessly raised his arm and let it thump heavily on the heaving chest below it. "Collins." He was alive. There was no way they were alive, not after that. He thumped his arm again. "Collins. Don't make me get up and come over there."

"Aw . . .fuck." The deep voice rumbled in displeasure, and Roger tried to laugh. "What the hell?"

"That was science, man."

"That shit wasn't science." Collins had yet to move, and his voice was slow and slurred. His arm draped over his eyes as he groaned.

Roger turned his head back so that he was looking at the ceiling. The sides of his throat were sticking together. "B– Benny?" he forced out.

Collins tried to raise his head, but couldn't. Not yet. "Benny," he said loudly, "you asshole. Where are you?" There was no sound, which didn't bode well, but considering the circumstances, they could give him another minute or so.

Roger blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to talk his body into moving, but it didn't want to. His mind was fuzzy, it seemed he was forgetting something. He was content to just lay there for as long as it took to remember.

There was a sound of shifting metal, and a heavy thud. Roger's breath quickened. A shadow appeared slowly, and he turned his head toward it, unable to move out of its way. Collins managed to raise his head, and cursed as Nate appeared in the light. He hovered over the two men, and crouched down between them. "You did it," he said, his accented voice soft. "Thank you."

Roger stopped breathing. His chest jerked painfully, reminding him to inhale, and he did so, asking, "What happened?"

Nate smiled faintly. "You gathered the power. You directed it, and it was destroyed before He could take hold of it. I'm sorry it had to be this way."

"He?"

"My boss."

"You . . .you . . ."

"Go ahead. Say it."

Roger struggled to raise his head. "You mean you were with us the whole time! You knew this would happen, you wanted it to happen this way."

"I did. You saved the world, young man." Nate smiled and patted Roger on the shoulder.

Collins found the strength to sit up. "You bastard," he muttered, "you fucking bastard!"

"I assure you, it was necessary," Nate said. He didn't sense the man rising behind him, and didn't heed the warning as the pipe slammed into the back of his head, knocking him to the floor.

Benny collapsed beside Collins, letting the pipe clatter to the ground. "Serves him right."

Roger pushed onto his elbows. "What the hell did you just do?"

"Hope I killed him."

Roger stared him down, incredulous. "He was on our side, you bastard! He was finally explaining things!"

"No he wasn't!" But Benny suddenly looked panicked. "He wasn't! After all that? He. . .aw, shit." He quickly put his hand to Nate's pulse. "Coulda told me. Could of fucking. . .how the hell was I supposed to know? I just walked up, went to Mark, and got my fucking head beat in."

"Forget it, man. He okay?"

Benny hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

"Okay." And it was then that Roger realized what he'd forgotten. "Mark! Fuck! Where the hell is Mark?" He yelled in rage when he realized he couldn't sit up. Collins pulled him to an upright position and waited as he got his bearings. Both he and Benny helped Roger to stand.

The explosion, if that's what it had been, had decimated the room. The three friends knew that Mark was across from where the chamber previously stood, though there was no pole to be seen. They carefully tread over the cracked glass and falling materials. Collins looked up nervously. "This place ain't gonna last long."

"He's here. I know he is."

"Of course he is, just, hang on. Slow down a minute!"

"Mark! Can you hear me?"

"Damn it, hang on, boy! There." Collins readjusted his grip as Roger slipped. "Look, you sit here, let me and Benny look. You're done in."

Roger snorted. "As if. Mark?"

"Wait a minute!" Benny suddenly ducked out from underneath Roger's arm and charged towards a lump of debris. "Here!" He shifted large chunks of material aside, and found a hand, the wrist red and bleeding.

"Shit!" Roger pulled away and landed in a heap beside the pile. He joined in the digging until they uncovered Mark, unbound, the heavy pole laying across his torso. He was pale, and not breathing. "Son of a bitch, I'll kill him, I don't care, I'll kill him . . ."

"Grab that end. . ."

"I know, I know!"

Roger and Benny both took hold of the pole and carefully lifted it from Mark's chest, then cleared away the rest of the debris as Collins leaned over the stricken man. "Come on physician," he muttered, "heal thyself."

"He's not a . . .screw it. Mark," Roger patted his cheeks as Benny checked for a pulse. "Don't you dare, you bastard, wake up," he muttered frantically when Benny shook his head, "we're done, it's all over, wake up. Damn you, WAKE UP!" He slapped Mark hard, so hard his head lolled to the side. He did it again, and again, his desperation growing until Collins grabbed his hands and held them.

"Roger! Get a hold of yourself!"

"Then tell him to wake the fuck up!" Roger screamed at him. "We didn't go through this shit for it to end this way, dammit, WAKE UP!" He pulled away, pounded on Mark's chest, and gave him one more good slap for good measure, in case he was so obstinate as to never wake again.

Mark gasped, his eyes flying open, his chest heaving as air rushed in.

"Son of a. . ." Roger scooped him into his arms, ignoring the pained cry of protest. Collins sat back on his heels in relief and scrubbed a hand over his face. Benny smiled, and in an unusual show of affection, ruffled the man's hair. Roger just rocked his friend for a while, unable to say anything. Mark let him, stunned.

"You should be dead," Benny said bluntly. "You know that?"

Mark just blinked at him, mouth open as he dazedly sucked in precious air. His hand clutched Roger's shirt as realization slowly dawned on him.

"Okay," Collins said from over his shoulder, "easy. Take it slow. You hurt anywhere?" He carefully probed the still legs, Mark's arms, and his chest very, very gently. Mark didn't jerk away in pain.

But he did pass out.

They carried him over the rubble, stumbling and cursing as their ankles turned. The door was unblocked. Collins set down Mark's legs and reached out to open it. A thought stopped him. "Wait. What about Nate?"

"What about him?" Roger asked, almost nastily.

"We can't just leave him here."

"Sure we can. Open that door."

"You haven't learned much, have you?" a voice said behind them. Nate stood behind them, the blood streaming down his face, looking like a vision of hell itself. Roger adjusted his grip on Mark, pulling his friend's arm over his shoulder. Benny did the same, both ready to bolt with the man between them if need be.

Nate winced and gave his head a shake. "It all went wrong anyway," he said in a desperate sigh, half to himself. "The transfer didn't work." He bent double, about to collapse, but not quite making it to the ground.

Roger shifted his hold once again. "What do you mean, it didn't work? You thanked us! You said . . . "

Nate looked up, coated with exhaustion. "He didn't get it, no. Unfortunately, through this little game we've found out that there are those unwilling to give their power up. Therefore the balance has not been restored," he waved his hand listlessly, "therefore the world is still in peril."

"When isn't it?" Mark asked softly.

Roger shook his head and turned his attention to his friend. "We've done enough damage," he said softly to Nate. "Deal with this one yourself."

Nate straightened. "It isn't that easy."

"Wanna bet?"

"You can't just leave!"

Roger and the others had turned away. "Wanna bet?" he tossed over his shoulder.

He heard the voice behind him, even as he walked off. "You're not finished. You'll see what I mean when you find yourself under attack with no one to turn to."

"I'll take my chances," Roger muttered, knowing Nate heard him. They exited the shaky structure just before it collapsed, not waiting around to see if Nate did the same.

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The room was dark but for the lights being cast through the large loft windows that overlooked the city. It created odd shadows, enough to where one needed be cautious of one's footsteps, while brightening the room just enough to allow one to walk at all. Roger sat alone, plucking gently at the strings of his guitar. He didn't need light for that; so many times he had shut himself in the tiny bathroom and played alone in the dark, those haunting times when he so desperately needed a hit, those times after April died, the time he thought Mimi was going to. Mark knew to leave him alone during those moods, yet Roger could always feel his presence hovering nearby, just in case he was needed. He was damned used to that, and he was surprised at the degree to which he needed that stability.

They'd managed to find a road, and a driver willing to help. Rather than heading to a hospital, they returned to the loft, arguing about hospitals and ambulances and what the hell were they supposed to tell people, they didn't have a fucking CPAP labeled to relieve supernatural events. The driver, who had been concerned upon seeing the men, was all to glad to be rid of them at that point.

They didn't know what was wrong with him, but Mark insisted in a semi-drugged tone that he felt fine. With no one to turn to they laid him in his bed and set up in the den to wait, too wired to sleep.

The evening passed. The morning came. Benny had to go to work, exhausted as he was. . .the truth of the matter was he was tired of waiting around for Mark to wake up and needed the distraction. Even Collins begged off once he realized that Roger wasn't going anywhere, he had work to do and wanted to do it while he could, because he wanted to be around when Mark was coherent. The sofa wasn't big enough for the three of them and Roger's guitar, and he was tired of the mindless plucking. Roger didn't blame him for leaving.

The day passed, the guys checked in to find no change. Day two passed, day three started.

Roger hadn't even changed his clothes. His hair looked tormented. His eyes were circled. His fingers were numb from the strings, and a blister was forming. He would stop just long enough to look in on Mark, take a piss, get a drink, then settle down to strum again.

The evening came. He was still strumming.

A sound he couldn't be sure was real made him stop. He turned slowly to the window to see a large crow perched on the rail, its red eyes staring Roger down. The beak pecked angrily against the window, and it cawed loudly.

Roger jumped up and ran into Mark's room.

He wasn't there.

Roger stared in disbelief, shaking his head, his breath coming in great gasps. He spun around at the noise behind him. The crow had come in, somehow, and was walking toward him, claws clacking on the hard floor.

It was just a damn bird. No bird of death, just a damn bird. He backed away.

The bird continued to walk slowly toward him, sharp beak pointed right at him, red eyes gleaming. It seemed to grow as it came closer, and screeched in a high-pitched voice as it charged, aiming right for Roger's eyes.

"Roger! Wake up!"

Roger's eyes flew open. His hands were over his face. He was lying on his back on the sofa, his guitar lying across his stomach. A hand was on his shoulder, and he could feel where the cushion was depressed by someone's weight.

He snapped his head and sat up quickly, grabbing his guitar by the neck and shoving it aside, nearly hitting his friend on the head with it. "Mark!" Roger stared, wide-eyed.

Mark gave a small, confused smile. "Bad dream?"

It was such a normal thing to ask, as though Mark hadn't been asleep for nearly three days. "Yeah! Uh. . ." Roger replied, pulling at his face with his hand, "yeah. Dream." He looked at his friend, studying him closely, trying to shake the terror of the bird that had tried to claw his eyes out, a bird of death with eyes as red as Mark's had been when . . .

Mark nodded and pushed at Roger's legs, making room to sit beside him on the sofa. "I just walked in when you started yelling. Think you woke up right as I touched you."

"Yeah, thanks. You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Roger pulled in a shaky breath, and glared accusingly. "You slept long enough!"

"Guess I was tired." Mark looked tired. He looked exhausted, actually, but his smile was genuine, and not pained.

Of course he was. Right? How did one diagnose something like this? His stomach growled, and Roger jumped on a chance at normalcy. "Hey, you hungry?" He pushed Mark up from the sofa and sprang to his feet. "I got some left over Chinese, courtesy of Collins."

"You working on your alliteration?" Mark teased. "Must've been songwriting while I was out."

"Not really." Roger was already in the kitchen. He pulled out two plates, and an unopened carton of chicken fried rice. He stopped, trying to reconcile himself to the fact that, again, he was doing something so normal. The dream-eyes haunted him, everything about that haunted him, and now he was preparing fucking fried rice. The pause didn't go unnoticed.

"Roger . . ."

Normalcy be damned. "Look, I'm sorry." Roger turned to face Mark, leaning back against the counter. "I'm so sorry I did that to you, I didn't know . . ."

Mark just stood, shaking his head. "You didn't do anything. You needed help."

"I couldn't, I mean I should've . . ."

"What? Died?" Mark huffed and waved him away. "You know, after all that I can't believe we're going to argue about this again."

"No! We're not." Roger turned back to the food. "Just . . .thanks, you know?"

"Yeah. You're welcome." Mark hesitated, then stood at his shoulder. "Cold Chinese smells awful."

Roger nodded to the microwave. "That's what that thing's for."

Mark's eyes widened, and he laughed. "Hey! When did this show up?"

"It was, uh, Benny. Says somehow he ended up with two."

"Hurray for divorce settlements."

Roger smiled. "No metal or foil in it, okay?"

"Right." Mark practically had his head inside. "Now we don't have to wait forever for the stove to heat up!"

"See?" Roger smiled and handed Mark a plate. "Things are looking better already." He grinned. He decided not to tell Mark about the note he'd found taped to that microwave that had mysteriously appeared at their door, a thank you gift from a man who insisted, "We shall meet again."

Again, maybe. But much, much later.

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Nathaniel Greer sat in his chair. He didn't move, other than to tap his forefinger on the arm of the chair in time with his heartbeat. He was thinking, thinking of what went wrong, of how he himself had screwed up, of what he was going to tell his boss, his friend. There was no need to summon him. Nate's screen beeped at him. He glanced over, and tapped a button. "You're late."

"Since when do you dictate my timeliness?" the voice asked.

"Since I missed dinner waiting for you."

"Oh, Nate, I know you of old. You have no appetite." The voice sounded humored.

_And I know you of old, my friend_, Nate thought sadly. "You know what's happened, obviously."

"I am amazed you could have blundered so badly. But then you always were a bit of a second card."

"Didn't seem to matter to you."

"No. It didn't. So, how do you plan to fix this?"

Nate continued to tap his forefinger against the arm of his chair. "I don't know."

"You didn't find the vessel."

"No."

"In fact, I do believe you tried to destroy what we've spent so many years searching for." The voice grew hard.

"What makes you say that?" Nate asked lightly.

"Do not play games. I could, and should, kill you for doing what you did. You've no idea what we lost."

There was a time when Nate's friend wouldn't have said those words. He had a vague recollection of being pulled out of a bar, years ago, by this same man who now threatened to kill him. He knew it wasn't a mild threat, a figure of speech. He was perfectly capable of doing it. But that fact that this same man had pulled him from a bar to avoid violence showed just how far he'd gone, how his mutation was affecting him. "You should. But you won't. Because I too know you of old, my friend."

There was a snort of disgust. "Perhaps. But what are you going to do for me today?"

Nate winced slightly in indecision. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ceramic piece, studying the spiral design. "I don't know," he said softly, and his eyes held a determined gleam. "But I'm not giving up."

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Mark sat in a folding chair on the rooftop, elbows resting on his knees. The city lights were alive below him, stimulating the restlessness he felt. He sighed deeply and glanced at his sleeve, which was pulled far over his hand. That wasn't abnormal, he had a tendency to wear clothes that were a little long in the sleeve. The fact that he had pulled it down to stretch over his fingertips could be attributed to the chill in the air, except that he'd had it pulled down all evening.

Roger was visiting Mimi, with strict instructions not to breath a word of what had happened. Both Collins and Benny were doing their thing, whatever that was, neither feeling the need to cling to the others just because they had gone through a few harrowing events. Everyone needed space, needed to clear their heads. He couldn't fault them for that. Only, it put him up on the rooftop, alone. Fingers scratched at the sleeve, and he finally raised the cuff.

The faint tattoo of a spiral was visible on his inner wrist.

He slowly covered it again, and continued to stare out over the city.

-end-

(Look for part two in the series, coming soon)


End file.
